


To Be Vulnerable

by amaira



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Galaxy Garrison, Dubious Consent, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Homelessness, How Do I Tag, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Iverson (Voltron) is a Good Dad, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Minor Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), No Kerberos mission people you can rest easy, Oblivious Shiro (Voltron), Orphan Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Sexual Abuse, Shiro (Voltron) is Stressed, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Teacher-Student Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 20:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 72,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaira/pseuds/amaira
Summary: Keith never had any plans for a future beyond shuffling between abandoned buildings on the streets, selling blowjobs to buy food. That was all he thought his life would ever amount to – until he saw a commercial for the Galaxy Garrison, promising a better future.Iverson always wanted a family, but his fiancee had walked out on him years ago, fed up with him prioritizing his job over his relationship. That was the end of that, until the local cops dropped a skittish foster kid in his lap, offering him an unconventional second chance at family.Shiro could barely hold it together under the pressure to be the perfect student, to be everything to everyone. The last thing he needed was to have even more responsibilities dumped on him, least of all having to tutor a young aspiring pilot so much more promising than himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The update schedule for this will be erratic at best, sorry.

Hands in his pockets, Keith shuffled down the nameless streets of the run-down city he reluctantly called home. The sky was dark with an evening sun obscured by clouds, threatening a cold winter rain, but business had been slow the past few weeks and, well, he needed to eat eventually. He had $20 in his pocket, though, from a quiet customer who only wanted a handjob.

A boy across the street scowled and shouted something; another street kid defending his corner. Keith scoffed and kept walking. No one willingly drove through this section of town anyway.

Ducking into an alley, Keith slipped through the broken door of an abandoned auto shop. Half the windows were broken and the business was long closed, but the scent of motor oil and rubber still lingered. His blanket and change of clothing in the back had begun to absorb the smell.

Another pile of rags indicated that another vagrant had taken up residence against the opposite wall.

Keith sighed. He’d have to move again. He’d need even more money to tide him over until he could build up a new customer base.

Back on the street, then.

He quietly packed his meager belongings into an old backpack, and set out for Vinny’s. The food was garbage and the health department should have shut it down years ago, but Nico, the manager, let him hang out without buying something and didn’t ask too many questions.

It had begun to drizzle. Keith tucked his thumb into the sleeve of his hoodie and dragged the fabric over his face, wiping away as much sweat and grime as he could. He wove through alleys and back roads, finally coming out on the main strip of Dodge Street where the other whores hung out. All he had to do was pick up a few johns here, and he’d be set for the next week. Enough time for him to find a new street, a new hideout.

He lingered near the end of the strip. The more established prostitutes all adamantly defended their space; here, he could relax and wait.

Twenty minutes later, a familiar pickup truck pulled up next to him and rolled down the passenger window. Keith approached and leaned on the door.

“Been a while, Pretty Boy,” the driver said, blue eyes narrowed. “What’s on offer tonight?”

Keith scowled. “Same as always. Handjobs for twenty and blowjobs for fifty.”

The man huffed and carded a hand through his sandy blond hair, as if his aged, faded All-American Boy Next Door look would do anything for Keith. Keith didn’t much like this guy. He was always a little too creepy and a little too pushy, even for a 30-something who bought sex from homeless teenagers.

“And for, say, three hundred?”

“A lot of blowjobs or handjobs,” Keith answered flatly.

The guy waved a dismissive hand at him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Blowjob. Get in.”

Keith grabbed his bag and jumped in, leaning as far from the driver as possible. Not that the guy even noticed. No, he instead raised an eyebrow at the backpack.

“What’s in there?”

“Clothes.”

“Anything sexy?”

“Just more like what I’m wearing,” Keith answered with a shrug.

All he got was a soft huff, and the truck pulled out onto the road once more.

This john wasn’t quite what Keith would consider a regular. He had stopped by maybe six or seven times in the two years Keith had been walking these streets, and always gave the impression that he was just passing through. Perhaps traveling for work; he was always clean-cut and presentable.

He pulled into an abandoned parking lot conveniently close to Vinny’s, and unzipped his pants. “Alright, Pretty Boy, do your thing.”

Keith unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over, running a hand over the half-hard cock. A few solid strokes, and it was good to go. The john fiddled with his radio, setting it to an old classic rock station, then leaned back with his hands behind his head.

Wasting no time, Keith dipped down, pumping his head, swirling his tongue over the tip and making up the difference with his hand.

“Mm, just like that, Pretty Boy.” His cock twitched in Keith’s mouth and his fingers tightened in Keith’s hair. “Just... yeah, like...”

He yanked Keith off of him and nearly threw him against the passenger seat. A hand clamped down on Keith’s neck, sending his heart racing. His limbs ached with the panic flooding through them.

“I’ve been patient, and I’ve been generous. Now, Pretty Boy, you’re going to give me what I really want.”

Keith trembled. “No.”

A meaty hand pawed at his jeans, then unzipped them. “Don’t worry, you’ll be compensated fairly.”

Keith threw his knee forward, hitting the man’s elbow and earning a hiss and a tighter grip around his throat.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be. I like feisty.” He leaned forward and licked Keith’s cheek. Keith recoiled. “Oh, don’t be such a prude, Pretty Boy. You are a whore, after all.”

In one brief moment, Keith’s cloudy panic cleared just enough for him to launch his fist into the man’s exposed dick, mashing the zipper against sensitive skin and making the asshole howl in pain.

The hand around his neck released.

Keith grabbed his bag and stumbled out of the truck, sprinting down the alleyway and ducking into a soggy cardboard box next to a dumpster. He pulled his knees up to his chest and fumbled for his knife, holding it ready and waiting.

A few moments later, heavy footsteps chased him down the alley. They passed the box, shuffled around the other end of the alley, then stomped back to the parking lot.

“Stupid fucking kid,” the man muttered as he passed.

Keith stayed still, holding his breath, until he heard a door slam. The truck roared to life and peeled out onto the street again. He relaxed only enough to reposition himself, waiting to make sure the guy didn’t try to come back.

The rain picked up, dripping through the cardboard and trailing down Keith’s hair like cold fingers.

He waited fifteen, twenty minutes, until he was satisfied that he wasn’t in danger. Slowly, he crawled out from his shelter, then swapped his gray hoodie for a beat-up black denim jacket and shoving his hair into a beanie. There. If the guy was still on the road, he wouldn’t be able to look too closely.

Keith kept his head down as he dashed through darkened streets and sidewalks to Vinny’s, casting furtive glances at the road and avoiding streetlamps as he went.

The door to the diner jingled as he collided with it, and he barely spared Nico a second look as he dropped into an empty booth.

“You alright? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Keith crossed his arms and hunched up his shoulders. “Need money.”

Nico grunted a laugh. A short, chubby man, he reminded Keith of Santa Claus, if Santa Claus was a bald, sweaty chain-smoker who occasionally went on somewhat unhinged political rants in Greek.

The comparison didn’t really hold up.

“Twenty bucks if you sweep the kitchen while it’s still slow. And a burger.”

Keith almost smiled. “Gyros?”

“Gyros if you scrape, too.”

“Deal.”

Nico held out his hand and Keith shook it, then trudged to the back. He grabbed the rusty metal scraper from its hook next to the aprons, and set about the tedious work of clearing the floor of stomped-in food debris. The line cook, a college student whose name Keith could never remember, looked up from his phone and gave a lazy wave. Keith nodded in return, then continued pushing the scraper against the floor.

“What’s on order?” the cook asked.

Keith leaned on the handle to catch his breath. “Gyros.”

“Cool. Be right up.”

Keith traded out the scraper for the broom, and finished sweeping right as the cook dropped a plate full of gyros into the window. Nico poked his head through and inspected the floors, then smiled at Keith.

“Good work.” He offered up a $20 bill from the register.

“If, uh...” Keith started, glancing down and around, then back to Nico, “If a tall guy with blond hair and a green coat comes in here looking for me, you’ve never seen me and have no idea what he’s talking about, okay?”

Nico’s brows furrowed. “You in some kind of trouble?”

Keith swallowed hard and looked away. The cook placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You can hang back here with me. We even got a TV set up now so you can watch shit.”

Indeed, in the corner of the kitchen, there was now the shittiest TV Keith had ever seen. One corner was already splattered in grease. He nodded and grabbed his food, settling on one of the stools while the cook leaned against the counter once more. Nico disappeared for a few minutes, checking on the other customers, then returned and grumpily flipped through channels.

“See, that’s what you need,” he said.

Keith looked up from his gyros, staring at the commercial in confusion. Uniformed teenagers and adults alike stood in the desert, leaned over airplane cockpits, sat in classrooms filled with all manner of technical charts. A shuttle launched. A team of fighter jets wove complicated patterns through the sky.

“Go to one of those military schools. They’ll straighten your shit out.” He turned up the volume enough for Keith to hear the tail end of it.

_“– at the Galaxy Garrison in Garrison, Arizona. Together, working for a brighter future.”_

Strips of meat slid out of the pita and onto the plate, but Keith barely noticed that his next bite was all bread and onion. Arizona was only one state over; he could jump on one of those long-haul buses and be there the next day, if he wanted to.

An odd, heavy feeling that had nothing to do with the gyros settled in his gut.

Working for a brighter future.

He could use a brighter future.

******

No one could ever make the mistake of thinking Mitch Iverson was a patient or understanding man.

So when the police chief called him at 21:30 and immediately said _“I need you to come down here”_ as Iverson answered, well, his bad mood got even worse. He pulled out his tablet and verified the status of all students and staff, as well as any traffic that may have left base that day; everything checked out.

“It’s February fourteenth, Stevens,” he growled into the phone.

_“Yeah, and?”_

“Valentine’s Day.”

Stevens scoffed. _“We both know you haven’t had a date in over a decade, Commander.”_

“Go to hell. What did you want? All the cadets are accounted for and none of the staff have–”

_“You’re still a registered foster parent, right?”_

Mother _fucker_.

When he had taken over as Commander in charge of the Galaxy Garrison Academy, he and a few other high-level officers had been certified as foster parents. It was purely precautionary, just in case any cadets had family emergencies or custody issues, to ensure they would still have some level of stability in school.

He had never actually taken in a kid, though.

“Find someone else.”

_“But it’s February fourteenth, Commander. All the other parents are out getting romantic.”_

Someone was definitely laughing in the background.

_“And we need someone more skilled in interrogations than the others.”_

“Interro–what?” He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. “Fine. I’ll be there shortly.”

The sun had set hours ago and the warmth of the day had already begun to dissipate. Iverson considered his Jeep briefly, deciding to snap the ragtop on.

The wind whistled through the open windows as he drove to the police station, a small brick building probably built in the 1980s – it was drab and ugly enough. Stevens stood outside the front door as he parked, a grim fake smile on his face.

Iverson stepped out of the Jeep and leveled a bored stare at the police chief, preening a bit on the inside when the other man stiffened to something like attention.

“This better be good,” he grumbled.

Stevens sighed and opened the door for Iverson, following him inside. “Well, first of all, the kid won’t actually say a word. He has no identification, no phone or tablet or anything. Just a bag of clothes that smell worse than a locker room at a gym.”

Iverson raised an eyebrow. “What did you pick him up for?”

A few turns through hallways lined with chipped paint and worn gray carpeting later, they reached the... intake room. Interrogation room. Whatever it was. Stevens clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the door to a small internal room.

“We suspect he’s a runaway. Thought he might have been a cadet since he’s the right age and all, but... you’ll see, I guess.”

He opened the door with a soft click and a squeak.

“Need to oil those hinges,” Stevens mumbled.

Iverson rolled his eyes and walked into the room.

The kid was, indeed, a kid. Skinny, too skinny for any healthy boy, with lank black hair just past his shoulders. No cadet would look like that. He sat in a small folding chair, hands clasped in his lap and head tucked so low that his chin was level with his collarbones. His eyes flicked up to Iverson, widened and flashed in fear, then snapped to the surface of the table once more.

Despite that, there was no doubt that he was carefully monitoring the two men.

He was terrified.

What the hell had these cops done to this boy?

Stevens began rambling something – an introduction, it seemed – and Iverson cut him off with a glare and waved him away.

“Give me a moment.”

“Uh... sure, Commander.”

He left with one final glance back, then closed the door behind him.

Iverson sighed and sat down in the chair opposite the boy, interlacing his fingers on the edge of the table.

“I’m not a cop,” he said, frowning at the tiny wince from the child when he spoke. “I’m a foster parent.”

That got an even more violent wince and a soft, pained whine, and the boy started trembling. God, what had this kid been through?

“I’d tell you that you don’t need to be afraid, but that wouldn’t help, would it.”

And at that, the boy finally lifted his eyes to Iverson’s, studying him with a slight furrow to his brow. His trembling stilled. Progress. Acknowledge reality without a bunch of meaningless platitudes. He could do that. Hell, he preferred that over every other option.

Iverson leaned back in his chair, face twitching with irritation when it creaked. “Because you’re a minor, the cops won’t release you unless it’s into the custody of an adult. You can use the guest bedroom and bathroom, and we can figure out what to do long-term after you’ve had some sleep.”

The boy frowned, then said, in a soft whisper, “Fine.” Some of the tension had left his shoulders, but he looked more tired than trusting.

Still, it was enough. Iverson stood and knocked on the door, gesturing for the boy to stand as well. Stevens opened it after a moment, and scowled.

“Yeah?”

He didn’t need to sound so snappish about a scared kid.

“Any paperwork I need to fill out?”

Stevens gaped. “Wait, seriously? You got that kid to...”

Iverson glared. Stevens cleared his throat nervously and directed them to the front desk.

The paperwork was surprisingly light. An acknowledgement that he was taking temporary custody of a kid; some Child Protective Services guidelines that he signed every time he renewed his foster parent registration; two more legalese messes that roughly amounted to consent for CPS and local police to conduct investigations without needing to get a warrant, if necessary.

“And the kid’s name?” Stevens asked, side-eyeing the boy.

Iverson signed the last line with almost enough force to tear the paper. “He doesn’t have any ID, so you couldn’t verify whatever name he gives you anyway.”

That got him another scowl as Stevens gathered up the forms. “Sure.”

“Come on,” Iverson beckoned to the boy, who followed silently with his bag slung over a shoulder.

He remained quiet the entire ride home, watching the scenery pass as Iverson drove. Only when they approached his house did the boy perk up, craning his neck to get a view of the Galaxy Garrison’s central complex, barely visible out his window.

“That’s the Galaxy Garrison over there,” Iverson said. “Heard of it?”

“A bit,” the boy whispered. He wrung his hands in his lap, but kept looking out the window at the building until it was hidden from view.

Iverson pulled the Jeep under the carpark awning. “Home sweet home. Now, I have a few ground rules for you.”

The boy nodded.

“No using the stove until I’m confident you can cook. Freezer has enough microwave meals to last you a while. If you’re up to anything illegal, keep it out of the house. All guests need to be cleared with me ahead of time. Keep out of my office while I’m out.”

He waited, reflexively expecting a “yes, sir,” but the boy nodded mutely once more.

They entered the modest ranch home, and Iverson gave him the grand tour in all of five minutes. Bedrooms, bathrooms, office, living room, kitchen, utility room. It was nothing special, but the kid spent the entire time gaping at everything.

They ended up standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room.

Despite working with children every day, Iverson had no idea how to handle one in his living space.

“I, uh... Is that clothes in your bag?” His only answer was another silent nod. “Okay, well, you can use the laundry machines if you need to. Shower up, whatever you need to do, and get some sleep. We’ll handle everything else tomorrow.” Nod. “Do you need anything? Toothbrush, soap, whatever.”

The kid shrank in on himself. “All of it?”

Iverson let out a long sigh. “Alright. I got some spares. You have a name, kid?”

Silence for several moments as the boy wrung his hands again.

Then, almost too quiet to hear, “Keith.”

******

Keith examined the bedroom door, frowning when he realized it had no lock. At least the adjoining bathroom did have one, allowing him some safety if he needed it. The blankets smelled clean but stale, like they had been placed on the bed and left alone for years.

The carpeting was similarly old and untouched. The entire room felt old.

But it was also cozy, in a way, and Keith shook his head at the idea. The last thing he could afford was to get too comfortable here. Eventually this Commander guy would realize Keith couldn’t earn his keep, and it would be off to the streets once more.

Until then, though, he’d make sure he got enough sleep, and washed his clothes, and kept his bag packed for quick escape.

Keith tiptoed to the utility room with his two changes of clothes in hand. The laundry machines were nicer but smaller than the ones at the laundromat, and they didn’t need coins or a card to activate, but there was also no vending machine of detergent packets.

He sighed and frowned. Just water wouldn’t quite cut it, given how long it had been since he last washed his clothes.

It would be better than nothing, though. Maybe he could put a little bit of shampoo in there with them.

Darting to the bathroom and back, he squirted a few drops of shampoo into the detergent tray on the washer and started the machine. It even gave him an estimated time remaining: 34 minutes. Faster than the laundromat.

On Keith’s way back to the bedroom, the Commander stopped him and offered him two choices of frozen dinners.

“I’m fine,” Keith muttered, trying to pass the giant man and failing.

“I’m sure those cops didn’t feed you,” he insisted.

Keith’s stomach let out a poorly-timed growl, and he stared at the floor.

The Commander sighed. “Suit yourself.”

He went back to hiding in the bedroom, watching the clock so he could grab his clothes and toss them into the dryer as soon as they were done.

Sure, he hadn’t had much to eat the past few days. But he had no money left, no way to make more here yet, and he refused to go into any more debt to the Commander than absolutely necessary.

Fortunately, the Commander didn’t bother him for the rest of the night, and Keith fell into a fitful but oddly comfortable sleep.

******

He woke again early in the morning, to the door to the guest room creaking. The Commander peeked his head inside, but Keith stayed as still as he could, hoping the dim light could hide his open eyes.

Or, maybe that was worse. What if the Commander expected Keith to pay for his room with –

The Commander sighed, smiled, and left, closing the door behind him.

Keith finally exhaled.

Okay, so, this house was close to the Galaxy Garrison. He didn’t have to walk too far to get there. Hell, he could be there and back before the Commander got home from work! And maybe the Garrison would bring him on as a janitor or something, so he could be part of it despite not having any skills worth a damn.

Then he’d be able to cover his share of things in this house. Perfect.

He took another shower, tried in vain to tame his hair, put on his least ratty clothes, and set out towards the towering building in the desert. His stomach burned with hunger, but he’d deal with that later. When he knew he could afford it.

The walk was quick, and Keith found himself at the security gates far sooner than he had expected. A few cars entered the base, each seemingly swiping a card or badge to get in. He hadn’t accounted for that; he’d have to improvise.

He got his opportunity ten minutes later, when a large, dark brown delivery truck pulled up to the gates and stopped.

Keith’s clothes were all dark colors.

He scampered up to the truck and tucked himself into a tiny ball between the trailer door and the lift gate. The truck began moving after a minute, and he clung to any handhold he could find as it bounced over the speed bumps and lurched back and forth on roads to... wherever.

As soon as the truck passed a section of building, Keith jumped down. He stumbled, and his ankles screamed with the impact, but he still scrambled to the side of the building and ducked out of sight.

Time to get his bearings here.

The giant, towering central building stretched over him, right next to this one. He scooted along the dirt until he reached the corner, peeking around it. No, this building connected to the central one. All of them did, mostly by weird building-bridges above him.

So if Keith could get into this one, he’d be inside the entire place.

The only problem now was that he couldn’t find a door that didn’t have a badge scanner on it, and it wasn’t like he could just fall in with a group of strangers and sneak in behind them. Everyone he had seen so far was in uniform, and their crisp gray-and-yellows or bright orange-and-whites weren’t even close to his drab black and dark blue.

The sound of footsteps startled him out of his thoughts, and he turned to locate them, only to see a handful of gray-and-yellows running right for him, too close to escape.

Keith curled in on himself. Hopefully he’d be spared the worst of the pain if he protected his stomach and sides.

Strong hands hauled him to his feet. One of the men held something to his face, frowning at it and grumbling something to one of the women.

“We have a trespasser, sir,” she said into a phone, frowning at whatever the voice on the other end said. “A kid. Probably one of the locals on a dare... Yes, sir. We’ll be there shortly.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and addressed the other woman and three men with her. “Iverson wants to see the kid.”

That apparently meant something serious, judging by the dark looks on everyone’s faces. Keith kept his mouth shut and his eyes down, letting them march him inside – inside! – without protest.

After winding through several confusing halls full of people his age, and riding up a few floors in an elevator, they stopped outside a boring metal door. The woman in charge rapped her knuckles against it, and Keith ducked his head and forced himself to keep his breathing steady.

Maybe this Iverson would let him work here. But maybe they would send him back to the cops. Best to look compliant.

The door slid open.

“Keith?”

He snapped his head up. The Commander – was he Iverson? – stood before him in the doorway, face some unreadable but definitely not happy expression.

Shit. Keith looked back at the floor and closed his eyes.

“You know this kid, sir?”

The Commander must have scowled hard, for how strongly Keith heard it in his voice. “Yes. I’ll take it from here, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Someone pushed him forward, and the Commander placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the office. They walked through a waiting area with an older woman sitting at a computer, before opening an old-fashioned wooden door to an interior room. It was the same pattern of clean grays as the rest of the building, with a small potted palm tree in the corner, a smart wood desk, and a few chairs. Keith took one of them at the Commander’s request, and crossed his arms.

The Commander himself sat at his desk chair and leaned over his desk, resting his forehead on his fingertips. “Why did you follow me to work, Keith?”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he answered. Then he remembered how the guard-types had spoken and hastily added, “sir.”

“No need for that from you. You’re not a cadet or enlisted. Call me Mitch, I guess.”

Keith nodded, fully intending on avoiding ever having to say the Commander’s name directly instead.

“So, Keith, if you’re not here for me, why are you here?”

He squeezed his elbows a little tighter. His stomach took that moment to gurgle, a dark and hollow sound far worse than the previous night’s growling. The Commander let out a heavy sigh.

“Have you had anything to eat yet?”

“No. I’m fine.”

The Commander pushed his chair back and stood. “You’re clearly not fine. You need to eat.”

Keith curled his chest down. It ached. “I can’t afford it yet.”

“Can’t afford – What?”

He looked up, then away, frightened by the intense look on the Commander’s face. “I don’t have a job.”

The Commander sat back down. “You... you don’t need a job, Keith.”

“I... How should I earn my keep without one?”

“Earn your – Jesus Christ. Keith. Why do you need to earn your keep?”

Keith glanced at the Commander. His hands shook a little. How could a foster parent not know? Shit, would he kick him out now?

“The... the foster fees? And food and water and rent?” He winced at how his voice wavered, and he scrambled to explain. “I don’t know how much it is, because my last fosters didn’t tell me how much teenagers cost, but I could get a job here as a janitor or something and maybe that will be enough? But if it’s not, then you don’t have to keep me.”

Even though he might actually kind of miss the bed. It was old and a bit worn, but Keith had never felt that good when he woke after a night sleeping in a pile of cardboard in an alley.

“Keith,” the Commander started, voice thick with something like anger, “there is no foster fee.”

His heart sank. “There... isn’t?”

“And the state will send me money to cover your food and such.”

Keith shook in his chair. His last foster parents had all but pushed him into scrounging for money on the streets, explaining that he was an expensive kid and they needed him to cover his share of the foster fees. Sometimes they’d let him keep a dollar or two to buy a chocolate bar, but... once he had reached twelve years old, they told him he wasn’t cutting it, and kicked him out.

“Oh,” he said, and somehow a choked sob accompanied it out of his mouth.

This time, the Commander left his chair and made it all the way to Keith, awkwardly pressing the boy against his chest and patting his shoulder.

“A kid your age is supposed to be in school, not working.”

Keith sniffled, the tears gone as quickly as they came, and nodded. “I wanted – but then the cops – I had to get a job.”

It had made sense in his head.

Fortunately, it seemed to make sense to the Commander. “Why did you come here, to the Galaxy Garrison? Student, janitor, whatever. Why here?”

Keith pulled away from the warm chest. “I wanted... the ad said you guys are working for a better future, and... it’s stupid, I know, but...”

Another sigh. “How old are you again?”

“Fourteen.”

“Our students usually start between ages thirteen and sixteen.” The Commander grabbed Keith’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “You’d have to pass the entrance exams, but it’s worth a shot before I enroll you in the public high school.”

Keith attempted to curl in on himself again, but the heavy hand on his shoulder kept him standing straight.

“Hey. Keith. What is it?”

He bit back the whimper in his throat. “I wouldn’t pass. I’m not very smart.”

That got him a laugh. “You snuck into a secure facility without anyone catching on until a group of officers just happened to walk past you. That takes some smarts.”

“Street-smarts, not book-smarts,” Keith whined.

“Well, how did you do in school?”

He wracked his brain, trying to remember, and coming up blank. “I don’t know.” He glanced up, met only by confusion, and elaborated. “I haven’t been to school for a while. They pulled me out in third grade.”

That got him a litany of curses from the Commander. Might as well pack up his bag and set off to a new city if he was already pissing off his foster like this.

“Well, we’ll need to get you some tutors to help you catch up. But first, food. The cafeteria here should still have some breakfast left.”

Hope bubbled up in Keith’s chest, but he stomped it down. It was only a matter of time before everyone realized he was a lost cause.

The Commander guided him out of the office and through another dizzying maze of hallways and stairways. A few other gray-and-yellow officers stopped and greeted him along the way – and his name was definitely Iverson – and asked about Keith.

“This is Keith, my foster son,” he told each of them, eventually adding, “he’s shy,” to later introductions when Keith failed to do more than silently shake their hands.

The stares from the orange-and-whites were the worst, though. He soon gathered that those were cadets, mostly around his age or a little older, and none of them even approached Iverson. They just watched, and Keith couldn’t even guess at what they wanted.

Inside the cafeteria, Iverson piled a plate high with bacon and eggs and donuts, and handed it off to Keith.

“All the food here is free,” he explained.

Keith devoured it all.

He couldn’t even remember what the cafeteria looked like, but he would probably never forget the taste of that bacon. Smoky, salty, meaty, savory... and Iverson had given him six pieces of it.

Iverson led him out the same doors they entered, then paused in the hallway and pulled out his phone. He tapped something, waited for a chirp sound, and held it to his ear.

“Marisa, what appointments do I have today? ... Okay, great. If anyone asks, I’m busy for the next hour. Thanks.” He pocketed his phone again and nodded to Keith. “Want the tour?”

Keith shrugged his shoulders, trying not to appear too interested. Iverson started walking, apparently taking him on the tour anyway.

He quickly ascertained that Keith knew absolutely nothing about the Galaxy Garrison, and jumped into an obviously rehearsed explanation. They had all kinds of spaceflight, aeronautics, engineering, and digital communications programs. All were designed to be paired with a scientific, mathematic, or written communications focus, and every one could be tailored to a student’s specific goals.

And then he asked what Keith’s goals were.

Keith looked down at his shoes and gripped his elbows. “I don’t know.”

A warm weight on his shoulder startled him. Iverson’s hand.

“Once you figure it out, I’ll arrange for tutors.” His hand squeezed for a moment. “As long as I’m your foster parent, I’ll make sure you have what you need.”

Keith swallowed hard. His eyes burned, but there was no way he’d fall apart in public. Not here. Not in front of Iverson.

“Prospective student, Mitch?”

A tanned, middle-aged woman just under Iverson’s height smiled softly at the two of them. She had a tablet of her own tucked under her arm, though hers was orange instead of the blue ones Keith had seen the students using.

“Ah, Lauren. This is my foster son, Keith. He’s interested in attending next year. Keith, this is Commander Montgomery, the director of the aeronautics and spaceflight programs.”

She grinned then, resting her free hand on her hip and nodding. “Wanna be a pilot, Keith?”

He looked between her and Iverson. “I... I don’t know?”

She laughed. It was a warm sound. “Everyone wants to be a pilot, deep down. The fighter sims are free for the next half hour, if you want to try one.”

At that, she and Iverson got into a fast-paced debate. Apparently it was unusual for the fighter sims to be open. Apparently only the best pilots in the last two years of schooling could use them.

Apparently Montgomery gave no fucks and lived to make Iverson miserable, and this was just one more straw on the camel’s back.

“Oh come on, Mitch. Live a little! Let the boy have some fun!”

She was an unstoppable force, and Keith and Iverson found themselves following her to the elevators and up a level and around more corners and into a large atrium-type room with three weird box-shaped machines in the center. Montgomery led them to the middle box and opened it up.

“Alright, watch me. Here’s the pilot seat, and you control the jet with these controls here and the pedals on the floor. Uh, you should strap in.”

Iverson huffed and buckled Keith in, then himself. The screen in front of Montgomery lit up.

“So, watch how the jet moves as I push and pull on this – and now with the pedals – and then twisting. Got it?”

Keith nodded, then realized Montgomery couldn’t see him. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Say, Mitch, how about the Florida run?”

Iverson grumbled. Montgomery laughed, and selected something on the screen.

“This is one of the more difficult tests we give our students. The top ten runs are listed here.” She pointed a list of names. “You can see me at five and seven.”

Keith squinted. The top four runs, six, and nine all had the same name. “Who is T Shirogane?”

“Ha, you pronounced it right. That’s Takashi Shirogane. He’s in his second to last year here. Probably the best pilot I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching. Nicest kid, too. Now, hold on.”

She yanked the controls and the image on the screen moved – just like a jet taking off. Then the box moved, and Keith yelped, gripping his seat. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Montgomery.

It was amazing. The screen had a series of lines and diagrams, laying out the series of maneuvers for her to whip through. A series of numbers at the top of the display rose and fell with every move. The box spun and lurched and twisted with the sim jet as she rolled and banked and – this was amazing. Exhilarating. He felt free.

Five of the shortest minutes in Keith’s life later, she landed and turned to him with a grin. “So, wanna try it?”

He nodded hard enough to ache. He had never wanted to try anything this much in his life.

“Alright, up you get,” Iverson sighed, unbuckling Keith and helping strap him into the pilot chair.

Montgomery grinned so wide it looked slightly frightening. “So, usually students scan their IDs to start a program, but I can authorize you as a guest.” She touched a few options on her tablet, and Keith found himself in the same sandbox level Montgomery had used when demonstrating the sim. “Get your bearings, then we’ll start the run.”

He twisted and pushed and pulled the central steering thing. Did it have a name? Did the pedals? Name or not, though, this felt as natural as breathing. His lips twitched. Once he had his bearings, Montgomery asked him to turn and roll and bank, then patted his shoulder.

“Alright, looking good. Starting the run now.”

The screen flickered, and he was at the runway where Montgomery started.

He could do this.

The first few maneuvers lit up over the display. His face broke into a grin.

He took off, launching into the sky, before dropping into a roll like a corkscrew, and banking hard right, then left, then rocking and diving and having the time of his life. Another series of rolls and turns appeared before him, and he flew through them without a second thought.

They brought him back to the runway, and he landed a little roughly, but otherwise in one piece. Some of the numbers on his screen were higher than Montgomery’s, while others were lower. He wasn’t sure which he should have been aiming for.

Keith twisted around in his chair, looking to Montgomery for... something. An explanation, maybe?

Her eyes were wide, and her mouth slightly slack. She turned to Iverson. “Mitch, where did you find this kid?”

And even Iverson looked spooked. “Stevens called me last night, needing a foster parent.”

“Huh. Well, Keith,” Montgomery continued, “I’ll need a name for the leaderboard.”

“Leader...?”

He looked to the screen once more. The number one spot was now blank, with all the other names knocked down a line.

 _Shirogane_ meant silver, if he remembered correctly. And if he was in the top spot, then he’d be gold. It wasn’t like he could remember his real last name anyway.

So, Keith typed in _K Kogane_ on the touchscreen keyboard that appeared where the flight instruments had been, checking that it was repeated in the line on the leaderboard.

Behind him, he heard the chirp of Iverson’s phone making a call, and then Iverson’s voice.

“I need to see Cadet Shirogane immediately.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro was not always so patient, and he and Keith were not always friends.

Shiro’s hand whipped out from under the blankets at 06:00 to grab his phone and silence the alarm. He dragged his other hand down his face and groaned, sliding out of bed and cringing at the cold floor.

Fuck mornings. Fuck Monday mornings in particular.

He already had a message from Lieutenant Hedrick, too.

_Got visitors from spaceflight coming in tomorrow. I know it’s earlier than planned, but you’ve got to be on top of your game. Remember, they’re only taking the best and brightest._

It was too early for this shit.

Applying for the new accelerated spaceflight training program in October had been a total long shot, but Shiro couldn’t miss the opportunity. Combined graduate schooling and specialized astronaut training, along with actual flight time? If all went well, he’d be able to go on long-term missions, missions to the outer planets, by age 23. Without it, he’d still be in grad school at that age.

But everyone else applying was in their final year at the Academy, and he still had one more to go. So he’d covered his ass and also sent a request to Iverson for training with the local flight teams.

Yet, to his complete shock, he had made it to the final round of candidates.

And tomorrow was the day the spaceflight team would meet with the candidates and make their choice.

Shiro shook his head as his stomach began to knot. This was no time to freak out.

He dressed slowly and jogged through the empty halls to the gym. Hopefully it would be similarly deserted, and he’d actually be able to work out when in the place meant for working out. He’d have no time tomorrow.

The group of younger cadets gathered outside the gym doors killed that hope just as quickly as it had formed.

Shiro stifled a groan.

The tallest boy approached him. “Hey! Ah, good morning, Shiro! We, uh, would like....”

A girl in the group rolled her eyes and picked up where he had trailed off. “Can you show us how to lift?”

“There are personal trainers you can see without needing to wake up at 06:00,” he replied, trying to sound friendly and accommodating anyway.

They glanced among themselves and mumbled. He looked more closely at their uniforms. All wore the pins of piloting cadets. He should have known their names, or even recognized their faces. Hedrick had often asked him to be a mentor for the younger kids, and normally he enjoyed it, but...

Shiro’s sigh slipped out of him before he could stop it. Of course. They didn’t really want the services of a personal trainer; they wanted one-on-one time with Takashi Shirogane, time he couldn’t afford to give without taking away from himself.

But he had to set a good example and help guide the next generation of students. He had to be extraordinary if he ever wanted the astronaut program to select him. He had a reputation. He had responsibilities. His time was not his own.

“I can show you a few things, I suppose.”

But even though Shiro had settled into a comfortable routine on his own, he was hardly capable of teaching it to others. They all had terrible form, but he didn’t know how to adjust it beyond the basics. They all wanted different things, and he didn’t know how to advise them to improve their flexibility safely.

Finally, he just gave up, and spent twenty minutes doing an awful abbreviated workout of his own, urging them to follow along without weights to get the feel for it.

Then recommending they see the personal trainers anyway.

He bade them farewell, already having forgotten their names. They stared after him, and he had to lock his arms to his sides to keep from hiding his face.

It wasn’t their fault he couldn’t help them as much as they wanted.

07:30. Another message, this one from Commander Montgomery.

_Don’t mind Hedrick. You’ll be fine._

Shiro sighed, rushed back to his room to shower, then walked to the cafeteria for a quick breakfast before his first class.

“Mornin’ Shiro!”

Kara Villanova, a friendly but overbearing acquaintance, plopped down in the seat opposite his.

He froze, fork and tiny sausage link paused halfway to his open mouth. “Good morning, Kara.”

“Can you check number three for me? And maybe five and six, too? Intro to Astrophys homework.” She shoved her tablet at him without waiting for an answer.

The sausage made a mournful retreat to the plate.

Of course, because today was already shaping up to be a gauntlet, numbers three, five, and six were wrong.

He was halfway through explaining how to calculate the answer for five when the first bell for classes rang. That left him only five minutes to scarf down breakfast and rush to his first class. He gave Kara an apologetic look as she pouted at six, still uncorrected, and stuffed his egg-white omelette in his mouth.

“Maybe meet up at lunch to go over the rest?” Shiro offered.

She pouted harder. “They’re due first period.”

Shiro made a few more apologetic noises, then gave up as he realized they had no effect on her. He gathered up his bag and munched on the last sausage on his way to class.

His first class was little more than a blur, and he was blocked entirely from the path to his second, due to the throng of students wanting his advice or trying to schedule a study group or inviting him to parties.

With a few mumbled excuses, Shiro managed to escape the pressing crowd, and ducked into a less-used hallway. He closed his eyes and stepped back against the wall, sliding down it to crouch over his knees. His arms shook.

Breathe. Breathe. Only one and a half more years of this. Only one and a half more years of impromptu tutoring and training and never being allowed the space to be his own person. One and a half more years under the magnifying glass of everyone who expected him to be perfect.

Then he could be a pilot and work with people who didn’t give a shit who he was.

The warning bell chimed. Only one minute to get to his next class. He swallowed hard, straightened up, and rubbed his eyes.

He could do this.

His phone beeped with a new message from Hedrick.

_Got a student who needs some extra practice in the cargo sim. Do you have time to help her?_

Shiro grumbled as he sprinted through the halls. He might as well have posted office hours like the teachers. Some structure would do him good, give him a chance to relax, have some time to himself if he could get all the others to just – no. Patience yields focus. He could deal with this. This wasn’t a burden; it was an opportunity to do good.

He skidded into the classroom right as the bell rang. Lieutenant Ryu raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t comment as he took his seat and brought up the class text on his tablet. Stellar Spectroscopy. Far more interesting than it sounded at first.

“Today, we get to play with the spectrograph telescopes,” Ryu said, grinning when his words earned a slight cheer from the students. “Of course, these are just models. You’ll have a few classes with them before we do the night sessions in the observatory, playing with the real thing.”

Tapping his badge to check out a telescope, Shiro smiled to himself. Class was the best. Everyone was focused and in their own little worlds, allowing him room to breathe.

Not five minutes after he sat down at his desk with his model telescope, quietly and happily following the tutorial on his tablet, someone elbowed him. Intentionally. Michelle Lee, communications major. Liked to gossip.

“Someone just broke your record on the Florida run,” she hissed.

That got the attention of everyone else, even Ryu.

Telescopes and lesson forgotten, the class surrounded her tablet, watching the recording of the new best flight.

And holy shit.

It was insane.

“Who was it?” Shiro croaked out. No one paid him any mind, and someone even shushed him, and a cold tendril of dread took hold in his chest.

Ever since he had made a name for himself on the simulators, Shiro had hated it. Hated being everyone’s hero, constantly in the spotlight, held to higher standards and greater scrutiny than others. Because he could take it. Because he had such potential. Because some day he’d make a name for himself in the field, and everyone wanted to grab hold of some of that for themselves.

And now, after enduring this for four and a half years, his classmates tossed him aside like old news?

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or resentful.

All because he was beaten in one sim by –

“Who is Kogane?” Michelle asked.

They all turned to Shiro at that, assuming that he would know the names of all one hundred or so of the pilots in the school.

“I don’t recognize the name,” he replied. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

“Nor do I,” Ryu added. “May I see?” Michelle handed over her tablet, and Ryu scrolled through whatever he was looking for. “Authorized by Montgomery herself. I’d suggest asking her if you’re curious.”

“What does it mean?” Michelle asked, then turned to Shiro. “It’s a Japanese name, right?”

His stomach dropped through the floor. It was a fucking joke name, wasn’t it. “Yeah. Gold.”

A few people giggled.

“Doesn’t your name mean silver?” someone asked, though the tone was less questioning and more teasing.

He nodded. A titter spread through the class.

“Alright, everyone, back to your desks,” Ryu said, a wry smile on his face. “You still have to familiarize yourselves with the telescopes before class is over.”

Shiro sighed, brows furrowed, as he turned in his chair and fiddled with the example controls in the tutorial once more. His model telescope whirred and shifted with every adjustment, but the usual charmed excitement he’d feel over it was gone.

He was numb.

Someone here was a better pilot. Would the Garrison prefer this Kogane over him now? Had all his effort been for nothing?

He finished the tutorial and returned the model telescope to its cabinet in the front of the room. Ryu gave him a worried look, but he shrugged and buried his face in his tablet.

The mystery of a new top-ranked sim pilot was a siren call, and Shiro navigated to the sim records menu, when a knock on the door startled him.

Commander Montgomery.

“Sorry to interrupt, Kihyun. I need to speak with Shiro.”

Ryu waved him along. “Go ahead.”

Shiro did his best to ignore the whispers as he gathered his belongings and stood, and refused to look back at all the eyes trained on him as he walked out.

He flinched when the door clicked shut behind him.

“Shiro?”

He flinched at that, too.

“Hey, Shiro, look at me. What’s wrong?”

Slowly, he lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Who... who is Kogane?”

Montgomery’s mind had always worked a mile a minute, and she had always been able to read him like an open book. This time was no different. Her face softened in something like empathy, while her eyes hardened in something like frustration.

“Come on, we’ll talk on the way.” Her hand on his shoulder blade was a warm comfort. “Everyone always puts so much pressure on you, more than they should. I’ve tried to talk to the other professors about it, but didn’t get very far. And the other students idolize you because of it.”

She stopped, then, pulling him into an empty classroom. For a few moments, they just looked at each other, before Shiro sagged and let her pull him into a stiff hug.

“You’ll be 19 in a couple weeks, yes?”

Her voice sounded much warmer right next to his ear. He nodded. She patted his back.

“It’s way too much. And I bet today, they all treated you like chopped liver once they saw that you’re human.”

“I’ve never had chopped liver, so I couldn’t say,” he mumbled, wincing when he realized that it sounded like a pout.

Montgomery huffed out a laugh and dropped her arms from his shoulders. “It means they treated you like dirt. Now, let’s go. Iverson will be salty if we’re too late.”

That feeling of dread returned, squeezing his lungs. “Iverson? He... he isn’t going to deny my request now, is he?”

“If he does, I’ll make his life hell,” Montgomery growled, “so I doubt it. No, this situation is not as straightforward as it seems, and I believe he means to ask for your help.”

Shiro’s feet stumbled at that, and he was only saved from lurching into the wall by Montgomery’s quick hand.

They waved to Marisa as they entered the waiting area, and Montgomery knocked on the door to Iverson’s office. The man himself opened it, ushering them both inside.

Shiro moved to take a seat, only to find the one closest to him already occupied. The boy looked a bit young and fairly scared. Montgomery made the introductions.

“Keith, this is Takashi Shirogane. Shiro, this is Keith Kogane.”

They awkwardly shook hands.

After a second look, it was clear that Keith was no cadet. His hands were so thin and bony that Shiro worried his handshake might injure him. Similarly, his collarbones stuck out way too far, and his clothes had probably looked like they’d seen better days a few years ago. Worn, with holes and stains – how would one even stain black denim? – and every edge fraying. And what the hell was that hair-like disaster on his head?

Handshake over, Keith immediately looked down at the floor in front of him once more. Shiro saluted Iverson.

“You requested to speak with me, sir?”

“At ease, Shiro,” Iverson replied with a slight groan to his voice. “Lauren, it’s almost lunch time. Could you take Keith to get a bite to eat?”

“Sure,” she chirped in reply, ushering Keith out with her. The boy kept his eyes on the floor, save for one final fearful glance back at Iverson.

Iverson ran his hands down his face. “What a fucking day.”

“So, he’s Kogane?” Shiro asked, jerking his head towards the door.

That got a full groan out of Iverson. “I wanted to speak with you for two things. One, I received your request for time with the local flight teams, and I’m going to approve once a month sessions with them starting this summer.”

Shiro’s heart thudded. He would get to fly for real, no matter what happened tomorrow.

“And two, Keith. He has a lot of promise as a pilot and is interested in attending the Garrison in the fall, but will need tutoring to help him catch up to where he should be.” Iverson leaned forward and sighed. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure here to be the best and stay at the top, and I know it must rankle you to meet Keith. I’m asking you to tutor him as a favor, not a demand. You can say no and you won’t face any consequences. Your personal education must always be your first priority.”

Tutor a kid who needed help to catch up, who might be able to surpass him some day? Shiro looked down at the floor, much like Keith had done just minutes before, and worried at his lip. He could do some real good in the kid’s life, but in the process might sabotage his own dreams. He sighed.

“And... if I say yes?”

Iverson’s chair creaked as he leaned back again. “Aside from the obvious get-out-of-jail-free card that is having a personal assignment from me? Which I will let you abuse liberally, by the way.”

Shiro scoffed. “Yeah, aside from that.”

“I push the teams to take you on flights once a week instead of once a month.”

All the air punched its way out of Shiro’s lungs. Not even graduates who had been picked as trainees got that much flight time. It would more than make up for whatever he might lose by helping Keith.

“I’ll do it.”

******

Keith was thoroughly convinced that Iverson was rich.

He was arranging for tutors, and he owned a house with extra rooms and furniture, and he apparently saw no problem with buying Keith new clothing.

Which led them to a clothing shop in the basement of the Garrison Academy that evening, where all the cadets picked up their uniforms. Uniforms were free of charge to students, according to Iverson, but the back wall of basic jeans and shirts and underwear still cost money.

So he had no idea what to do when Iverson said, “Go ahead, pick out whatever you’d like.”

The racks and hooks of clothing stretched up the wall a good twelve feet. How on earth was he supposed to choose? He’d never picked out clothes before; he just took whatever his previous foster parents gave him, or whatever looked like it might fit him from the donation bins at the homeless shelters.

Was... was this a test? Keith looked back at Iverson for some kind of direction.

“What do I do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. This was too much.

“Do you like your current jeans? We can get more like those if you like them.”

Keith pulled his shoulders up a little, not quite like a shrug. “I’m fine with what I have. I don’t need any more.”

“Really, Keith,” Iverson sighed and tried to smile. “Most people have at least six changes of clothes. Plus things like pajamas and something to wear when working out.”

Okay, guidelines. Good. Keith studied the wall once more.

He had two jeans and two shirts, and a hoodie, and a jacket, and two pairs of boxer briefs. So he should get four more pants and four more shirts and four boxer briefs, and one set of pajamas. He didn’t work out, so he didn’t need something for that.

Quietly, Keith sifted through rows upon rows of identical pants, identical shirts. How would he know which one was right? He glanced back at Iverson, then grabbed a blue tee and held it against his chest. It seemed alright, and it was basic enough that it wouldn’t be too expensive, so he set it aside on an open shelf. A pair of simple dark gray jeans joined it, followed by gray pajama pants. Nothing too flashy or fancy.

Except a black button-down shirt, with red vertical stripes and sleeves already rolled up to the elbow, kept drawing his eyes. It was easily fancier than anything he’d ever owned. Once again, he checked to see if Iverson was watching, daring to reach out and touch the fabric of the shirt when he saw that Iverson was distracted.

It was so soft.

Maybe if he got one less of each thing, Iverson would let him get this shirt.

Keith quickly grabbed some dark brown cargo pants, and another pair of jeans, and a plain black tee like the blue one. Now he just had to get permission.

He carried the pile to the counter, where Iverson was chatting with the cashier.

But how would he even ask? He didn’t even know what words to use to keep from looking greedy. Before he could find them, Iverson noticed him and nodded.

“Everything fit?”

Keith squeezed the pile a little tighter. “I think so?”

“Did you try them on?”

He shook his head.

Iverson placed a hand on his shoulder and led him to an open doorway. “There’s fitting rooms back here. Go ahead, try them. See if you like them.”

The fitting rooms looked like bathroom stalls, only with small benches instead of toilets, and mirrors in the corner. The thin carpeting from the shop extended back here, too.

Keith stripped down to his underwear and froze as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He knew he looked too skinny, but seeing it always felt weird.

The jeans fit alright, if a little loose. Same with the cargo pants. Should he get them like this, in case he would have access to enough food to be less skinny? Iverson seemed pretty intent on making Keith eat. But maybe Iverson expected him to stay the same weight as he was now. He should find something more snug.

The shirts were fine, at least. Less to worry about.

He quickly dressed and gathered up the clothes. Iverson waited for him just outside the doorway.

“How’d they fit?”

Keith ducked his head. “Kinda loose, but the shirts are alright.”

Iverson hummed. “How loose? Would they be comfortable with a belt?”

“Probably?”

“We’ll get these, then, and find a belt for you. You’ll grow into them once you put on some weight.” He took the clothes from Keith’s arms and carried them to the counter, sorting them into piles. “This is it? Nothing else caught your eye?”

Now was the chance. “Uh... Well, there’s another shirt, but it’s....” His face burned. He couldn’t even ask. He shook his head hard. “These are fine.”

Iverson’s sigh took on an exasperated quality, then, and Keith flinched. He clasped his hands in front of his hips and dragged his thumb over his knuckles. He’d messed up.

“Come on, Keith. Point out everything you like here.”

He wanted to shake his head again, but his eyes tracked to the shirt hanging on the wall. And of course Iverson noticed and walked right for it, pulling one off the peg and turning it around in his hand.

“It’s a nice shirt. Why are you so worried?”

“It’s... it’s too much. I don’t need it.”

Iverson scoffed. “It’s fine, Keith. It’s a good-quality shirt, and nicer than the ones you have.” He held it out for Keith to take. “Try it on.”

In the fitting room once more, Keith studied the shirt on his chest. It looked good, a little loose but not baggy. A smile fought at the corner of his mouth, and he bit his lip to keep it contained. It was just a shirt. He shouldn’t let show how much he liked it.

Back in the middle of the shop, Iverson asked how it fit, and Keith’s mind buzzed at the idea that he could just lie and say it didn’t work and then he wouldn’t have to get it.

But he just nodded and shrugged and added it to the pile.

“Okay. Go pick out a pack of underwear and some undershirts, and a belt that you like. Do you need socks?”

Keith shrugged again. Iverson sighed again.

By now, Iverson seemed irritated, so bound and determined to make sure Keith had every piece of clothing he could wear and sick of Keith resisting.

So he just went with it. Pack of boxer briefs, pack of sleeveless undershirts, pack of socks, simple belt.

And Iverson paid for it all without blinking, like it was nothing.

Definitely rich.

Keith didn’t know much about rich people, or what he value he could be to them. He just knew that he’d never held so much clothing in his arms as he did now, cradling the brown paper bag with his purchases in it.

******

Tuesdays normally gave Shiro the luxury of sleeping until 07:00, but a nightmare about being unable to become a pilot startled him awake around 05:45. He spent the remaining time lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, willing away the nerves in his gut with little success.

Then his alarm went off, and he passed the day in such a daze that he couldn’t even remember walking to the classroom where Hedrick told him to meet.

He pulled his sleeves a little lower around his wrists. His hands were oddly cold today.

The door to the classroom slid open with a hiss, and Shiro inhaled sharply.

He sat at attention as the local spaceflight team, two men and two women, ambled past his desk and through the room of a half-dozen aspiring trainees. All were one year ahead of him and only months from graduation. Shiro knew his presence here was an anomaly, and the sidelong looks his fellow cadets cast at him only confirmed that.

Hedrick spoke with the team in low tones, alternately pointing at his tablet and paging through printed booklets on clipboards.

He then turned to the assembled cadets, hands behind his back. “Thank you all for coming here on such short notice. We’ve chosen you as our final candidates because you are among the best pilot cadets the Garrison Academy has produced these past few years. Now, only one of you will be chosen for the accelerated spaceflight track, but by no means should the rest of you consider it a failure if you aren’t. We absolutely wish to see you succeed and apply for the graduate spaceflight program after graduation.”

The gray walls had never looked so bleak or felt so smothering before. Hedrick stood out before them, the very embodiment of white: pinkish pale skin that reflected the sun, white-blond hair that reminded Shiro of a polar bear’s fur, and ice blue irises that almost blended into the whites of his eyes.

“Now!” Hedrick clapped his hands together with a grin. “Shall we get started?”

A few cadets let out nervous giggles.

The spaceflight team moved to an adjacent room and began calling cadets one by one for interviews. Eventually Shiro was the last one left, alone in the now-empty classroom, reminding himself to remain calm and collected.

Inhale, exhale. Patience yields focus.

“Cadet Shirogane,” Hedrick said from the doorway, sending Shiro’s heart into his throat, “we’re ready to meet with you now.”

He rose to his feet, steeling himself as he followed Hedrick and trying not to jump as the doors whooshed open and shut.

There were even more people in this room than just the spaceflight team. Shiro recognized Commander Holt, and Lieutenant Mickelson, but no one else.

Mickelson straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall and flashed a toothy grin. “Hey Shiro. No need to worry; we’ve already decided on you.”

One of the spaceflight team members rolled her eyes and complained at Mickelson for jumping the gun.

“I... what?” Shiro’s brain turned over the words at least a dozen times, and they still made no sense. He repeated, “What?”

Mickelson cracked up. “Man, you should see your face.”

Shiro barely made it to the chair, sliding into it in a daze. The plastic was still warm with the body heat of the previous cadet. Hedrick patted his shoulder and smiled.

“You are, quite honestly, the best pilot we’ve seen in years,” Commander Holt said.

“Yep!” Mickelson had always been far more casual with his students than the other teachers. “And I’ll be arranging your weekly flight training with the local teams over the summer and the next school year, too.”

Head still spinning, Shiro barked out something like a laugh, as a smile pasted itself on his face. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, and laughed again.

“I... I can’t believe this,” he said, barely keeping a lid on the bubbling emotions in his chest. He rested his forehead in his palms. “I thought this was a complete long shot. How will I find the time for it?”

Hedrick answered that question. “The spaceflight training won’t start until the second half of the spring semester, so it won’t conflict with the normal live flights. As for those...”

Shiro looked up at him, brows furrowed, even as the smile still pulled at his cheeks. Hedrick looked downright gleeful. “Yes, sir?”

“Clearly you’re beyond anything your final year of sim classes would teach you, and I could use a TA for the intermediate classes. Run both of those once a week, and you’re excused.”

His face hurt from so much smiling. “You mean I’d have more time than I do now?”

“We want you to be in optimal condition,” Commander Holt said, a strangely fond look on his face. “That means proper sleep and enough time to relax.”

“This is... this is a dream come true,” Shiro breathed.

A wave of happy laughter spread through the room, and the spaceflight team stood to shake Shiro’s hand and finally introduce themselves. He forgot their names as soon as they spoke them, too dazed by the events of the past five minutes to pay attention.

“I’ll send you their files later,” Hedrick whispered, “so you know who they are.”

Shiro sagged in relief. “Thank you, sir.”

He clapped Shiro on the back and led him out of the room. The hall was bright and crisp and clean, and Hedrick beamed.

“Hey, no worries. Now, let’s go tell Montgomery the news and make her lose her mind.”

She did.

******

Keith ran his fingers over the clothes – his clothes – laid out on the bed. He’d pulled them from the dryer the previous evening and left them draped over a chair, and now he had no idea where to put them.

Iverson had insisted on washing the clothing after purchasing them. Never mind that Iverson had an absolutely giant bottle of detergent in a cabinet next to the washing machine. He could wash anything at any time. He could wash things just because!

Perhaps even more important than the question of where to put them was figuring out what to wear. He’d already decided on the gray jeans, which sat low on his hips, only barely held in place by the belt – which wasn’t washed. Apparently belts weren’t washable.

Takashi Shirogane would be meeting him in Iverson’s office this afternoon to go over tutoring plans. He was the best, right? Montgomery had sung his praises at lunch two days ago. Iverson had said that Keith should be a student instead of working to earn his keep, and Shirogane was his gatekeeper to that. He had to impress him, somehow.

After a few more minutes of staring mindlessly at the clothes, Keith huffed and began to fold them. He still didn’t know where they should go, and eventually he settled for stacking them in neat piles on top of the dresser. Iverson hadn’t said he could use the drawers or the closet. Better safe than sorry.

A knock on the bedroom door startled him.

“Hey, Keith, be ready to leave in fifteen minutes, alright? We’ll get breakfast there,” Iverson said through the door.

The thought of more bacon gave him strength.

“Okay,” he called back in reply.

He shrugged on a dark gray undershirt and the striped button-down, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows like they had been on the hanger. If it was nice enough for Iverson, it would be nice enough for this Shirogane guy, right?

Keith buried his head in his hands and took a few heavy breaths. He was terrible with people. He should have booked it out of here the moment Iverson turned his back that very first night. Two nights ago.

He padded out of the bedroom and joined Iverson at the front door, picking up the briefcase and holding it all the way to the Jeep. He had to be of some value in case he failed at tutoring. The least he could do was carry Iverson’s bag.

He watched the scenery pass outside the window again. The sky was cloudy today, not threatening rain, but casting the ground in a gloomy gray. The shiny silver Garrison building, normally so sharp against the red desert around it, faded into the landscape.

Keith hugged the briefcase a little tighter, relaxing into the smell of worn leather as Iverson chatted with the security guard at the gate. A moment later, Iverson handed a clip-on visitor badge to Keith, and Keith fastened it to his collar.

He followed Iverson – now carrying his briefcase himself – into the building, through a throng of students, and into the office. Then it was down to the cafeteria and a plate full of meat and eggs for both of them, which they carried back to the office.

Keith could get used to this. Would he be able to have breakfast every day as a student here?

He asked Iverson, and got a baffled look in response. Iverson furrowed his brows at Keith as he stood outside his office door.

“Of course you can. You can have breakfast every day no matter where you study.” The door opened with a hiss and they both entered, sitting at the small table in the waiting area. “I’ll pick up some cereal for you for days you don’t come in with me. What do you like?”

“Um... bacon?”

Iverson snorted. “I see that. I’ll get a few kinds, and you can eat what you want.”

Keith nodded and hugged his plate a little closer. What had he done to deserve someone so generous? Was Iverson only like this because Keith had done so well on the piloting thing?

He rubbed his arms, soothing the goosebumps that rose there. Yesterday, he hadn’t quite noticed how perfectly regulated the air inside the buildings was. Every room was the same cool temperature, all the air subtly circulating, just enough not to be stale. Today, it felt as though his skin had fallen prey to that same regulation, that same seeping chill.

Iverson finished his breakfast and patted Keith on the shoulder, and a coil of warmth spread from that hand down his chest.

“I’ve got some stuff to work on privately, but I’ll be able to join you for lunch.”

Keith looked up at him. “Lunch is every day, too?”

“Every day.” Iverson’s hand squeezed him a bit, pushing that warmth even deeper.

Keith’s own hand twitched, as though it wanted to reach up to Iverson’s and hold on. He kept it pressed to his lap, staying rigid. Iverson basically owned him; he had to endure whatever Iverson did without complaint.

“Here.” Iverson reached into his briefcase and grabbed his orange tablet, fiddling with it for a few moments before he handed it off to Keith. “If you want to check out the Garrison, this will tell you where you are. Tap this if you get lost, and it’ll call Marisa. Be back here by 12:00.”

Keith cradled the tablet and looked down at its screen. Iverson had pulled up a map of the buildings. He glanced back up at his foster dad and nodded, grumbling and brushing his hair out of his eyes when it fell over his face.

Iverson chuckled and tapped a few more things on the tablet screen. “There’s a barber here, if you want to take care of that mop of hair. Go, have fun, alright?”

“Alright.”

In a sea of orange-and-white cadets, Keith stuck out like a sore thumb. Years of slinking through dingy brown alleys and drab concrete sidewalks did little for him in such a sleek and shiny setting. His black and dark gray clothing marked him as a clear outsider, and the orange tablet in his hands was a magnet for curious eyes.

Right. He held a teacher’s tablet, not a blue cadet tablet. He clamped it under his right arm and stuck to the walls.

After a few minutes, a bell tone sounded, and the hallways began to clear. Some kind of alarm? Timer? No one seemed worried, though, so Keith continued on.

He strolled through a small museum attached to the library, full of photos and models of past spacecraft. Only the velvet ropes marking them off from the room kept him from running his hands over them. Keith shook out his stiff right elbow and tucked the tablet under his left. Then it was up to the top floor to see the observatory, which was apparently closed during the day. Would he be able to see it at night if he was a student here?

A smooth, quiet elevator took him all the way to the basement, where he found the barber shop next to the uniform shop. The barber, a pale man probably in his 40s, furrowed his brows at Keith.

“Can I help you?”

Keith shifted from foot to foot. “Commander Iverson said I could get a haircut here.”

“Hmm.” The man stretched from leaning against the counter, and beckoned Keith over. “That his tablet?”

“Yes.” Keith kept his grip tight on it as he set it on the counter.

The barber held some smaller tablet next to Iverson’s, grinning when it beeped. “Alright, take a seat. What did you want done?”

Keith settled in the chair, staring at himself in the mirror and trying not to startle when the barber draped a slick poncho-thing over him.

“I don’t know. I usually cut it myself.”

“Same look, but cleaner, then?” He pulled at a few clumps of hair, dragging his fingertips down them and hold them against Keith’s cheeks.

Keith fought a shiver. “Sure.”

He screwed his eyes shut as the barber washed his hair. Having someone else’s hands all over him felt gross, even if the guy was friendly and it was just haircut prep. He sat stiff as a board during the haircut itself, enduring it with the resignation of a helpless child.

It was only the thought of trying to reflect well on Iverson that kept him from bolting without a word when the barber declared his work finished.

“You like it?”

Keith swallowed hard. “It’s good.”

“Alright, you can get back to Commander Iverson, now.”

He walked out in measured steps, not breaking into a run until he rounded the corner.

Right into a cadet.

Keith stumbled onto his knees. The tablet slipped from his arms, clattering on the floor and sliding away from him into the wall, display flashing and then going dark.

“No...” he whispered, skittering over to where it sat, dead. “No, no no no....”

A few more cadets joined the one he had barreled into, staring at him in fascination.

“That’s a teacher tablet,” one of them said, as if Keith didn’t already know that.

He scooped it up into his arms and cradled it as he bolted past them for the elevator. He knew Iverson’s office was four floors up. He could get there and... And what? Tears welled up in his eyes at the broken tablet, and he angrily wiped them away. The elevator rose in silence, dinging when it reached Iverson’s floor.

Keith tiptoed through the hall. He would accept whatever punishment Iverson saw fit to give him for damaging his property.

The office door whooshed open, and Keith stepped through.

Iverson stood at Marisa’s desk, a cheerful expression on his face that only brightened when he laid eyes on Keith.

“Hey, looks good. You ready for lunch?”

Keith trembled. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, extending his hands, holding out the tablet for Iverson to examine.

A confused frown replaced Iverson’s cheerful expression as he grabbed the tablet and turned it over. A few gestures – button presses? swipes? – later, it lit back up as if nothing had happened.

“Dropped it, huh?” he asked, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Keith nodded, fighting off tears of relief. “They automatically shut off with a hard enough impact. Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

But his face didn’t return to cheerful yet, sharpening instead as he examined Keith’s. He held that look just long enough for Keith to start squirming – what was he supposed to do? – then opened his arms.

“Come here. It’s okay.”

Keith slowly walked forward, as though pulled by something outside of himself, and let himself lean against Iverson’s chest. He nearly broke the tablet. He could live through this. Heavy arms circled his shoulders and squeezed. The embrace only lasted a few seconds before Iverson patted his back and let go.

“Lunch?”

A rumble from Keith’s stomach answered for him.

The array of food in the cafeteria today was far different from two days ago, when he’d just picked some tacos. He didn’t even recognize these new scents, and his nose wrinkled.

“What’s wrong, Keith?”

He stiffened. He’d have to be less transparent in the future. “What’s that smell?”

“Hm?” Iverson sniffed the air. “It’s just curry. Pretty good curry, too, since one of the cooks is from India.”

The word was as foreign as the smell. “What’s curry?”

“You... you’ve never had curry before?” Iverson stared down at him, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly slack. Keith shook his head. “Huh. Well, it’s basically a stew, with a specific blend of spices. There are a lot of kinds. You should try it. But if curry doesn’t appeal to you, there are sandwiches and tacos on the other end.”

Keith followed Iverson’s lead and scooped a few curries onto a plate of rice, finding that he liked the reddish curry more than the yellowish one, but the spicy brown was the best.

He also found that his fingers now smelled like curry no matter how many times he washed them after lunch.

Frustrated at the lingering scent, Keith shuffled back to Iverson’s office, only to see Iverson and Shirogane chatting in the hallway, giant smiles on both faces. Shirogane had two tablets and a stack of books in his arms.

“Let’s get you two set up in the waiting area,” Iverson said, as soon as he noticed Keith’s approach.

Keith stood back as he watched the two men arrange the books on the low table, their conversation too quiet for him to listen in on. But they seemed cheerful, so things were okay, right?

Shirogane was even more intimidating today than he was in Keith’s memory. All lean muscles and graceful lines, tall and broad-shouldered, with glossy black hair and tan skin, he was the perfect combination of attractive and dangerous. He gave a polite smile, and Keith’s face heated up. Had Shirogane noticed him staring?

“I’ll let you get to it,” Iverson said, shaking Shirogane’s hand and beckoning Keith over. Then he retired to his office and closed the door.

Keith walked halfway to the table and paused, certain there was some kind of protocol for this that he didn’t know. Shirogane gave him that same polite smile.

“So, Keith, where would you like to start? What area needs the most work?”

He slid into a chair and gripped the edge of the table. “I don’t really know.”

“Well,” Shirogane started, leaning over the books and pulling a few of them from the stack, “we can start with what the Garrison teaches first-year students, and address whatever areas of that you struggle with.”

That ended up being everything.

Keith didn’t recognize half the symbols in the math textbooks. He had just started multiplication and division in elementary school before his foster parents had pulled him out of there, and he had managed to figure out those two concepts on his own over the past few years, but this was something else entirely. Weirdly shaped symbols – one that looked like an E but angular – and equations with other equations nested inside them? Little numbers next to larger numbers? And math apparently used letters, too, but he didn’t know what they even meant. How could he do anything with them?

Beyond that, he hadn’t even known there were different kinds of science beyond the umbrella term. He was so clueless that there was nowhere to even start, and the charts and tables in the chemistry book swam before his eyes. They might as well have been written in another language. Some of them looked like they actually were. And some of the other science books used letters in their equations, too. He could make a little sense of biology, but only in that living things all had similar components. Then he turned a few more pages, and frowned at the abstract shapes in front of him.

How far behind was he? He fought back tears as he closed the biology book and shook his head. He would never get to where he needed to be.

At least his reading comprehension was decent when Shirogane had him take a test on the tablet, but it was still far below what the Garrison Academy wanted.

He could see, with the few glances he spared in Shirogane’s direction, that the star pilot was disappointed. And though Keith tried his best to look like he wasn’t dumb, he was clearly failing.

Shirogane gathered up the books an hour after arriving with a frown and a huff. “I don’t know what you were doing in school before now, but you’re not even close to cutting it for the Garrison. Skilled pilots are the most valuable members of the Garrison, and Iverson thinks you have the potential to get there, but.... It’s not an excuse to be a slacker. You have to be more focused and well-rounded as a student. Just having the skill to fly won’t get you very far.”

Keith tried not to cry. Was this why Iverson wanted him to be a student here? He’d get his own pilot, one with a personal debt to him. If Keith couldn’t be a pilot, what would he have to do instead? Would Iverson be disappointed? Would he have to leave?

“I’ll see what resources the Garrison has that would be more suited to your level,” Shirogane continued, with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll be in touch with Iverson for future tutoring appointments.”

“Okay,” Keith whispered, not trusting his voice not to crack.

He watched silently as Shirogane bade farewell to Iverson and stepped out the office door. The door closed after him with a hiss that shouldn’t have startled Keith but did anyway.

Iverson turned to Keith. “How did it go?”

Keith wrung his hands together and looked down at the floor, then back up to Iverson. What could he even say? He was so far behind that any attempts at studying were useless? He knew the look in Shirogane’s eyes, the look that said Keith was beyond help.

But he couldn’t just say that before he tried to find some other way to make himself valuable to Iverson, some other way to be a pilot like Iverson wanted him to do to live with him.

It was probably stupid, getting so attached to a place after only a few days. But the bed was warm and the house was cozy and the food was free, and he had new clothing, and... Iverson was too nice. He hadn’t been angry or mean yet, not like the last foster parents. Keith could stick it out, get some food while he waited for the other shoe to drop.

Iverson’s normally stern face softened. “Hey, it’s alright. I know it’s overwhelming, trying to catch up on so much, but you’ll make it. And if you don’t pass the entrance exams this year, you can try again next year.”

Keith nodded, throat too tight to say anything. He was never this emotional on the streets. Why was it coming out now?

Iverson patted his shoulder, then pulled him in for another brief embrace. Keith endured.

“Don’t worry, Keith. You’ll be fine.”

He swallowed hard. Would he really?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the most understanding person in the world filters life through their own experiences and beliefs, and friendships are never instant. Even families have to get to know each other.
> 
> But they all start somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've all been emotionally compromised by season six.
> 
> Japanese dialogue indicated by these quote marks: «...»

Compared to signing the initial emergency custody paperwork in the police station, tracking down the actual information on Keith for a longer-term placement had turned out to be damn near impossible.

Iverson sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d been on the phone all morning, neglecting his work to an absolutely shameful degree, trying to get in touch with someone, anyone, who might know who Keith was. Anyone who might know who his assigned social worker had been.

All he had was a first name – apparently Kogane wasn’t his actual last name, and Keith didn’t know the real one – and a birthday, and a guess that he was in the system in either Texas where he was born, or California where he’d been living before now. He’d also lived briefly in Nevada, Utah, and New Mexico. But the first two were the most likely, and the best place to start.

The two most populous states in the country.

He sent emails to a handful of Family Law firms in both states, explaining the situation and seeking their assistance, then sighed again.

He’d been sighing a lot, these past few days.

How could a kid just slip through the cracks like that? Was there no police alert when he went missing from his last foster family? How could anyone just forget about him?

Keith was quiet, and kept his needs to himself to a probably unhealthy degree. But even knowing him so briefly, Iverson could tell he was a good kid.

And he was absolutely terrified by everything.

It was understandable; this must have been a huge shock for him, and his previous experiences with the foster system had probably primed him to be fearful of parental figures.

But he had so much potential, too.

He worked hard at everything Shiro had thrown at him. The last few days, after their initial tutoring session, saw Keith glued to a green loaner tablet Shiro had checked out for him, taking tests and reading digital textbooks and completing a staggering number of assignments. He refused to put it down, even on the weekend, when Iverson tried to get him to tag along for errands to get the kid out of the house.

He had to wonder what Shiro had said to inspire such focus.

More than once, Iverson had come home from work or shopping to find Keith in the same chair at the kitchen table, in the same spot where he’d left him in the morning. Keith always said nothing, only glancing at him sheepishly and shaking his head when Iverson asked if he’d eaten yet that day, despite all the boxes of cereal he’d bought the kid.

So today, he brought Keith with him to work. The boy always ate when Iverson took him to the cafeteria, and he had his second tutoring appointment with Shiro in the afternoon. They’d settled on Mondays and Wednesdays, after Shiro’s classes were finished.

Iverson looked on as Keith sat in one of the waiting area chairs, curled up around the tablet. He’d had his usual pile of bacon at breakfast, ignoring all the other options.

Maybe he just didn’t like cereal at all.

Making a mental note to pick up some other microwaveable breakfast foods next time he went to the grocery store, Iverson slipped out the door and down the hall to Montgomery’s office. She still had a few minutes left in her morning class – Team Spaceflight Simulations – so he waited in the chair opposite her desk. Her fancy espresso machine began brewing a cappuccino, signaling her departure from class.

He needed to get one of those. Hook it up to his tablet and have coffee ready when he got back to his office, too.

Montgomery bumped the door open with her hip a moment later, startling then rolling her eyes at Iverson.

“A little warning next time, Mitch.”

He smiled softly. “Spur of the moment decision. At least I didn’t steal your coffee this time.”

She tossed her tablet and ring binder onto her desk and leaned against it, crossing her arms. “That’s because you value your life, like most humans do. Now, what do you want?”

“Someone to bounce some thoughts off of.”

“They have therapists for that,” she grumbled, watching her espresso machine intently as the last of the steamed milk dripped into the mug.

True, and the Galaxy Garrison employed at least a dozen of the best psychologists and psychiatrists in the nation. But he doubted Keith would be okay with going to one.

Montgomery was always grumpy on Mondays. She’d eventually let up.

He tried another angle. “You’re my closest friend.”

“All the more reason for you to have a therapist,” she quipped, her mouth tilting in a lopsided grin. A good sign; she would help him.

Iverson sighed. “It’s about Keith.”

“Hmm.” Much less playful now, Montgomery sipped her coffee in silence for a moment. “Okay. I still think a therapist is a better option than me, but I can understand why you don’t want to see one. Invasion of his privacy, in a way.”

“Well, yes, but also that you’ve already met him and I am not dragging him to a therapist right now.” He ran a hand over his head, frowning at the faint stubble growing back. “I don’t know how Sam Holt manages to balance a career and two kids. I’m in over my head with just one.”

Montgomery’s eyes crinkled. “Having a spouse helps. Colleen took on the majority of the childcare because she could do her job without going to space. And you know, all that rubbing won’t make your hair grow back.”

He glared at her, but stayed on topic. “So, Keith. He’s terrified of everything and I have no idea how to let him know he doesn’t have to worry.”

She finally sat down in her chair and leaned over her desk. “Okay. Let’s troubleshoot.”

It was what made Montgomery such a fantastic instructor, and such a valued friend. To her, every problem could be learned from and likely solved if one took the time to examine it. Iverson was well-versed in her demands: context, known facts, obstacles. Even if he didn’t always relay them in that order.

He took a breath. This was going to be a jumbled mess. Start with something easy.

“Keith won’t eat unless he’s here or I’ve already made his meal at home.”

That seemed to startle her. “Huh. Eating disorder? Illness? Has he said anything about food? Even indirectly.”

Context. “Not really. He has declined it when I offer it to him at home if I haven’t already cooked it.” He leaned back in the chair and let his head droop, before it snapped back up. “Though, actually, the first time I asked him if he’d eaten, he said he couldn’t afford it. As if he had to buy his food from me!”

Montgomery snarled. “What the fuck gave him that idea?”

“His previous fosters, I think.” Iverson huffed out a sigh. “And he has no idea what their names were. Or even his own last name.”

A wave of expressions crashed across Montgomery’s face at that, and her mouth worked silently before she finally settled on a single thought. “Not Kogane?”

“No, though he does speak some Japanese. It was a play on Shiro’s last name. Silver and gold.”

“He speaks Japanese? Huh. Shiro will like that,” Montgomery replied, before the meat of the subject sank in and she scowled. “How the hell does a kid go through life not knowing his own last name? Or the names of people who functioned as his guardians for – how long?”

Iverson calculated the years as Montgomery started a cup of plain coffee for him.

“Well, he mentioned them pulling him out of school in third grade, and he was probably around nine then, and he’s fourteen now. Five years?”

She sputtered. “Pulled him out of school? What the hell? Why?” She shushed Iverson when he began to answer. “No, wait. Start from the beginning. Everything you know about this kid. Little stuff. First impressions, even.”

His trip to the police station somehow felt like eons ago, even if it was only just over a week past. His hand drifted down from rubbing his head – probably how he lost his hair in the first place – and began pulling at his goatee.

Montgomery handed over his coffee and he drank, gagging and choking immediately.

Concentrated espresso. Not plain coffee.

“God damnit, Lauren, are you trying to kill me?” He coughed into his sleeve as she cackled. “I think my teeth are sentient now.”

Her laughter rang out, clear as a bell. “Man, that was priceless. I should do that to Hedrick next.”

He glared. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your favorite menace.” Her eyes crinkled around the corners again. “So, Keith.”

Keith. Iverson sighed and stared down his cup of manslaughter in the third degree.

“He’s a good kid, you know? Makes his bed every morning, cleans up after himself. But he was scared from the get-go. Even more scared when I said I was a foster parent. Stevens said he thought Keith was a runaway.”

Montgomery rested her cheek on one fist. “Do you agree with that assessment?”

He had never considered disagreeing with it before now. Sure, Keith had looked a little scrappy and scared, but –

It hit him like a bomb.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he growled, leaning forward over Montgomery’s desk in a way that could have looked like two friends being playfully conspiratorial. “I can’t believe I missed it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Missed what?”

“What if Keith was homeless? Beyond just running away. Homeless long-term.”

Silence hung between them for several seconds. Her face softened into something concerned and tender.

“Oh.”

Over the next ten minutes, in a confusing mess without clear beginning or end, he laid out his thoughts.

Keith’s clothes had been in such terrible shape that he obviously hadn’t replaced them for many months, if not years. The jeans were all too short, like he had grown since he got them, and stretched and threadbare like they had been forced to fit a widening frame.

The fact that his foster parents hadn’t told him their lies about the cost of teenage kids meant he likely hadn’t been in contact with them while a teenager, so at least two years. And if he had been expected to earn money when he lived with them and was unable to deliver, due to _being a fucking child_ , they might have thrown him out.

And if Keith didn’t even remember what state placed him as a foster kid, it meant he had drifted around without foster parents long enough to forget.

Montgomery nearly vibrated with fury by the end of it. “Please explain to me how you haven’t murdered those sorry sons of bitches yet.”

Iverson sighed. “I don’t know their names or where they live.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks and frowning. Finally, setting her mug down with a soft sigh, Montgomery shook her head.

“I don’t know if I can help with this, Mitch. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He fidgeted with the mug in his hands. “I don’t know if there’s anything I can do. But he’s been working hard on everything Shiro gave him, so if he can get into the Academy, maybe that will help.”

******

Keith waited in the corner chair, curled around the green tablet Iverson had brought home for him last week, trying not to shake.

He wore the nice shirt again today. It looked better than the tees, and made him look like he was worth something, even if it was just an illusion.

He couldn’t mess this up.

Some distant corner of Keith’s mind had decided that Cadet Shirogane was a difficult man to please, and therefore all his effort must go into pleasing him for it to have any effect. He had completed every assignment, read all the chapters Shirogane recommended in the textbooks, worked through every example question he could find.

He would show Shirogane that he was a hard worker and... and....

It wouldn’t last. He wasn’t worth anything, and Shirogane knew it, and soon Iverson would, too.

The door slid open and Keith tucked his head down a fraction of an inch. A friendly hello sat on the tip of his tongue, waiting for Shirogane to look at him so he could greet him politely. Suck up, posture, whatever it took.

But Shirogane walked straight to the table, face flat with the same polite smile, and beckoned Keith over.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, holding his hand out for the tablet.

His eyes flicked back and forth over the tablet’s analysis of Keith’s work as he swiped through page after page. He frowned and finally actually looked Keith in the eye.

“Well, congratulations. Your work is at a fifth grade level.”

Keith straightened a bit and almost smiled. He had done better than he expected, two grades higher than he had any right to be. Shirogane didn’t seem anywhere close to content with this news, though.

“Is... is that okay?” Keith asked. Was his performance acceptable? Had he done enough assignments? Did he have enough potential? He gripped the hem of his shirt and clenched his fingers.

Shirogane let out a slow, measured breath, like an aggressively controlled sigh. “No, it’s not. Not even close. To get in, you have to be at a ninth grade level at the bare minimum. Most students here are far above that when they apply.”

So he had to cover four grades’ worth of material before he could apply. Four years of schooling, in a matter of months. He bit his lip and looked away, then back at Shirogane.

“Is it possible?”

“Maybe.” Another sigh. Shirogane pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s up to you. If you don’t slack off, sure, it’s possible. If you do, then no, it’s not.”

Keith frowned and dropped his eyes to the green tablet. His work still hadn’t been enough for Shirogane not to think of him as a slacker. He had to do more, do better.

He waited for his tutor to say something else. He had no idea how tutoring worked, really. Was Shirogane supposed to be like a teacher for him? Or just someone to check work he did on his own? What was Keith supposed to do next?

But Shirogane stared at him, stoic and cold, and Keith’s face burned when he realized the man wanted a response.

“Okay,” he whispered, tucking his hands under his elbows and hunching down.

Apparently satisfied, Shirogane rummaged through his bag for two new textbooks, laying them on the table and sliding them towards Keith.

“Read these before Wednesday. We’ll start on algebra, since it’s the foundation of nearly all mathematics, and the scientific method, which is the basis of all quantifiable scientific study.”

Keith stacked one book on top of the other and curled his fingers around them. He nodded silently.

“Start on them now,” Shirogane continued, “and I’ll answer any questions you have in the next hour.”

He nodded again and cracked open the top book, thumbing through the pages until he found the first chapter and started reading. He would do whatever Shirogane told him to do.

He had to.

Shirogane seemed satisfied – as much as Keith could tell, at any rate – at Keith’s focus on the books for the next hour, and gave a polite farewell at the end of the appointment.

Keith flipped through a few more pages, but his eyes ached. He couldn’t focus on the words anymore. He closed the books, tucked them and the tablet into his tattered backpack, and curled up on the corner chair once more.

The cool air chilled him like last time. He should have brought his hoodie, but it was a stained and threadbare mess, hardly fit for Shirogane’s presence. It would be alright, though. Iverson would return later, and they’d go back to the house, and he could warm up there. He was no stranger to being cold for a few hours.

Iverson’s assistant wasn’t in the office today, either. Some kind of family thing, apparently, which meant Keith was all alone here.

Did Iverson actually trust him that much? That he wouldn’t try to steal or snoop like the previous foster parents accused him of?

It was probably a test. Keith curled up tighter. He wouldn’t fail it. He would pass every test that let him stay here.

The hair on his arms stood on end, flanked by goosebumps up to his elbows. He unrolled his sleeves and tucked his hands into the cuffs, then tucked his head between his knee and the chair. He’d just close his eyes and wait to warm up.

******

Iverson’s afternoon was filled with meetings bookending the second Spaceflight Simulations class of the day, which he sat in on with Montgomery. He then swung by the Exchange in the basement, picking up a couple blankets for Keith’s bed. The comforter on there was almost as old as Keith himself, and he’d probably want something newer and lighter for summer.

He was a little worried about leaving Keith alone in his office – there was nothing there to keep him entertained, and he might be scared without someone familiar – but he sighed in relief when he entered and found the boy curled up and asleep in one of the chairs.

He must have felt safe and comfortable enough to relax.

Moving quietly, Iverson gathered up his few belongings from his desk, then returned to Keith, grabbing his shoulder to rouse him.

Keith flailed, yelping and then whimpering, limbs flying out in all directions. A foot made contact with Iverson’s thigh, and a fist struck his chest. He stumbled away.

“Whoa! Hey, it’s okay, Keith. It’s just me.”

Keith’s eyes snapped open and he froze.

The fear Iverson had seen on Keith’s face in the police station had nothing on what he saw now.

Keith trembled, eyes wide and glassy, as he drew his arms and legs back in and cowered. Cowered, and braced himself. Iverson’s blood ran cold as he considered all the things Keith could be bracing himself for, all the things he could have experienced, to draw this kind of reaction from him.

Shaking his head, he crouched next to the chair. “Hey,” he whispered, voice soft as he placed his hands on Keith’s shoulders, “it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

He crouched like that until his knees ached, rubbing Keith’s back until the trembling slowed, then gathered him into his arms. Keith flinched and stiffened. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for something.

Clearly this wasn’t helping. Iverson let go and rocked back onto his heels. One of his hands brushed the hair out of Keith’s face.

“I’m sorry, Keith. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Keith looked up at him at that, the perfect picture of confusion. “What?” His voice cracked and he coughed a few times. “I – but you – I’m – I’m sorry.”

Iverson’s brows drew close. “For what?”

Still confused, Keith stumbled over his words again, wringing his hands and looking down at them like they had betrayed him.

Oh.

Iverson kneeled again, and offered his own hands, palm-up, to Keith. The frightened boy stared for a moment, then gingerly rested his fingertips on Iverson’s wrists.

“You did nothing wrong. I startled you, and you reacted out of instinct, right?” He brushed his thumbs over the back of Keith’s hands. Keith nodded, and Iverson slowly pulled him to his feet. “Come on, let’s go home.”

The sun hung low over the horizon, and the parking lot was mostly empty. As usual, the walk to the Jeep was quiet. The evening breeze whistled past the towering central building, barely drowning out steady footfalls and the click of the Jeep’s doors unlocking. Keith rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, so his sudden question in the Jeep surprised Iverson enough to make him twitch.

“Why are you doing this?”

He paused, his keys still in his hand, and slumped back against his seat. “Doing what?”

“Being – being nice.” Keith spat the word like it was poison.

Sucking in a breath, Iverson let his head drop back for a moment before turning to Keith.

“It’s just,” Keith continued, sullenly staring at his lap, “no one is nice unless they want something. What do you want?”

He had known Keith for all of two weeks, and already the kid had worked his way into his life so thoroughly that he couldn’t imagine it without him. Sure, he cared about all the kids he knew; it was why he stuck to the Academy when he could have gone into any other branch of the Galaxy Garrison. But Keith was different, somehow, different in a way he had yet to figure out.

“I want you to be happy,” he finally answered. “I want you to feel safe.”

The confusion on Keith’s face shifted but didn’t fade.

He turned the key, and the Jeep roared to life and carried them home.

Keith watched the sunset out of his window, clutching his backpack to his chest. Iverson kept his eyes on the road and frowned. He’d need to get Keith a new bag before he started classes. That backpack didn’t look like it had many days left in it.

Neither did Keith’s shoes, he thought, as he watched Keith toe off each battered boot by the front door.

“Let’s get the sheets off your bed and into the wash with these,” Iverson said, brandishing the blankets in his right hand. “Then you can pick which one you want on there tonight.”

Iverson pulled the tags off the blankets and set them on top of the washing machine, returning to the living room and finding Keith standing in the same spot, comforter in his arms and a subtly guilty look on his face.

He looked down. “Was I supposed to sleep under the blanket?”

The question surprised Iverson enough that his jaw worked without sound. “I... what?”

Keith shifted from foot to foot.

“I’ll grab the sheets,” Iverson said, brushing past Keith and into the bedroom. Keith followed quietly.

The room looked untouched, and barely lived in. The top sheet was still tucked in on the corners like how Iverson always made beds, and even the handles on the dresser drawers still had dust on them. Iverson frowned. Keith’s clothes had been neatly folded and stacked in a corner on the floor, with the socks and underwear rolled up next to them.

“Keith?” He turned to the boy, who once again fidgeted. “Why are your clothes on the floor, and why haven’t you been sleeping under the covers?” He rubbed a hand over the bedding and pulled a drawer open to make sure the dresser was indeed empty. “Do you not like them? We can get you different sheets.”

“You didn’t say I could.”

The answer was so plainly stated, like it was common knowledge. Like it was just how the world worked. Like one always had to wait for permission to use something as basic as a bed or a dresser.

Iverson heaved a sigh. His hands itched to hug Keith, but hugs seemed to bother him more than comfort him today.

“You can – Keith,” he breathed, “this is your room. Yours. The bed is yours, the dresser is yours. Hell, as long as you’re living here, this is your home just as much as mine. You can use whatever you want.”

Keith’s whisper barely caught his ear. “Okay.”

Progress. Iverson tugged at the corner of the fitted sheet. “Let’s get these in the wash, and then maybe we can watch a movie.”

“I should really study,” Keith murmured.

“You’ve been studying a lot already. It’s healthy to take a break.” He handed a bundle of sheets to Keith, who tucked them under his chin.

“Shirogane said I can’t slack off.”

Iverson frowned and slipped off the pillowcases. It only occurred to him now that he had no real idea how Keith was doing with tutoring. “You haven’t been slacking off, and a few hours to watch a movie won’t ruin your progress.”

He and Keith walked together to the laundry room, tossing everything in the washer. Keith watched him with wide, curious eyes. Far more curious and open than he’d ever seen them before.

“How has tutoring been going?”

A mix of pride and sadness flashed over Keith’s face. “Shirogane said I’m at a fifth-grade level.”

“That’s great. You’ve already made up two grade levels.” Iverson smiled and patted Keith on the shoulder.

The boy looked even sadder. “I don’t think Shirogane likes me very much.”

“Hm. Well, give it a few more days to see if he warms up. If not, I can find a different tutor for you.”

The relief that washed over Keith at that looked like a physical blow. He sagged so quickly that Iverson almost reached his arms out to catch him, before realizing he wasn’t actually collapsing.

He still dragged his books out of his tattered backpack, though, even though he also sat down on the couch to watch a movie.

Iverson shook his head. God, but he needed some serious parenting advice.

He grabbed his phone and fired off a quick message to Sam Holt.

_I could use your advice on a personal matter. What’s your availability?_

******

The whiplash of the past two weeks had thoroughly exhausted Shiro, and he flopped back on his bed after class, staring at the ceiling and refusing to think of anything.

Of course, that didn’t work. None of his mindfulness exercises ever did, especially not when he was so frustrated.

Today was his birthday, or as close to it as this year got, but he had no one to spend it with. He wouldn’t even be able to call his family until close to midnight.

He grumbled and turned over.

Fame was nothing new to Shiro; when he’d first started setting records in the simulators, he had found himself surrounded by what he thought were friends, and he had begun to feel a little less lonely here. But they quickly fell away when they realized that he was just a regular person, not some larger-than-life hero to rally behind. Not some genius pilot handing out his own success to all who touched him.

Winning the spot on the accelerated spaceflight program had brought all that back tenfold. He couldn’t walk through the halls without someone patting his back or trying to grab his attention.

And then everything swung in the opposite direction with Keith.

Keith never seemed to give Shiro a second thought. Keith never even seemed to think twice about the Garrison. Almost everyone had some kind of enthusiasm about what they wanted to do, but Keith merely completed his assignments. It would have been nice, if it wasn’t also so irritating. Shiro had no idea what Keith wanted with all of this.

All Shiro’s fellow cadets, for all his frustration with them, were brilliant minds that were motivated to succeed. They were clear with what they wanted and they pursued it with open determination. Keith just... didn’t give a shit. He made decent progress, and he had indeed read both books cover to cover by last Wednesday’s tutoring session, but... he still wasn’t anything like everyone else.

What he wouldn’t give to find someone right in the middle. Someone who cared a little bit about him and a little bit about success but not so much that they would be blinded by it. Someone who openly wanted things but wasn’t mercenary about it.

Shiro sat up and straightened his uniform. Maybe he’d go visit Montgomery before Keith arrived.

He definitely looked forward to the day he was an equal to his teachers and could relate to them as friends rather than superiors.

Nimbly dodging the hands of his classmates, Shiro strode through the halls at a near-run, only relaxing when he reached Montgomery’s office and saw her through the glass. He knocked on the door and she beckoned him inside.

“Happy birthday, Shiro,” she said, smiling. He returned her smile and dropped into the chair.

“Thank you, Commander.”

She rolled her eyes. “What brings you here? No plans?”

He shrugged. “I actually have some free time before tutoring. Iverson said he’d have to pick up Keith from home, so he’d be a little late.”

“Not taking the day off for your birthday?”

Shiro sighed. “No reason to, really. My family won’t be awake until tonight.”

Montgomery stretched and lounged back in her chair. Shiro grinned. She was never this casual with other students, and he was hopeful they could become real friends once he graduated.

Her office felt more like home to him than anywhere else in the Garrison, save for his dorm and the fighter sim. By now he had memorized the vintage NASA posters on the wall. He knew which pictures she had on her desk by the back of their frames – the silvery one with a photo of some family members, the matte black one with her and Iverson looping arms around each other.

Little pangs of loneliness beat around his ribs. He would have liked to spend his birthday with someone as close to him as Iverson and Montgomery were to each other.

“So,” she said, “how is the tutoring going, anyway?”

That wiped the smile off his face. “It’s frustrating.”

“Oh?” She sat back up, then snapped her fingers. “Before I forget. Here.” In her hand was one of the cards for the simulators. “Post-curfew entry into the sims. Don’t abuse it.”

“I... thank you, Commander.” He took it from her, turning it over in his fingers and tucking it into his jacket pocket. “How did you manage that?”

“I control all simulator access. I can do whatever I want.” Her grin flashed with a feral glint, before it dropped entirely. “So, tutoring. Spill.”

Shiro threaded his hands through his hair. “I have no idea what to make of this kid. Why is Iverson even bothering with him? His work is at a fifth grade level, and he actually asked if that would be good enough. I mean, he’s been making progress, but what kind of slacker makes it through middle school and learns nothing? And he never says anything about actually wanting to be here.”

Montgomery’s gaze turned sharp and cold. Her nostrils flared with a soft huff of breath. “How much do you know about him?” she asked, voice measured and frosty.

“I... nothing, I guess. Just that he could probably make me look like an amateur in the sims.” He clasped his hands in his lap, studying the lines in his skin under his knuckles. “He doesn’t make any sense. He’s nowhere near where he should be, but he doesn’t goof off or... I don’t know, Commander.”

“You’ve lived a very privileged life, Shiro.”

He jerked his head up. Montgomery’s face was a closed book, devoid of any expression now, and he had no idea what to make of her statement. She sighed, and then her eyes softened.

“You have a family that loves and supports you. You’ve studied in some of the best schools in the world. You’ve never wanted for any necessities of life.” She leaned forward and stretched out a hand, palm up, inviting his. “I know it hasn’t made your life perfect, but you have been so privileged that it’s hard to understand life without that.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She squeezed his fingers, then dropped them. “There’s only so much I can tell you. Keith is a foster kid in Mitch’s care. He last attended school in third grade. We’re not sure the last time he had a roof over his head.”

“... Oh.” Fuck. Fuck was more appropriate. “That... wow.”

“Yeah, wow. Think on that next time you get frustrated with him.” Montgomery frowned, something sad and disappointed all in one. “Mitch said that he’s been studying so much he forgets to eat. That kid may be a lot of things, but I highly doubt he’s a slacker.”

Shiro nodded, throat tight and chest sore with something like regret. He had been pretty hard on Keith. He opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by his phone chiming.

“Go ahead and see what it is,” Montgomery said.

He pulled it out of his pocket, and grinned. It was from Japan. He waved at Montgomery and stood to leave, slipping into Japanese as he answered.

«Moshi moshi.»

 _«_ _Takashi!_ _»_ his little brother’s groggy voice rang out. _«_ _Happy birthday Onii-chan!_ _»_

«Ryou-chan, what are you doing awake so early?»

_«_ _I set my alarm so I could be the first to say happy birthday!_ _»_

Shiro grinned as he gently closed the door to Montgomery’s office. «Will you be awake for the call later today?»

A yawn delayed Ryou’s answer. _«_ _Yeah, of course. I won’t miss it!_ _»_

«Good. I miss you. How’s school?»

_«_ _Hm? I’m still top of the class. I’ll be in the Garrison before you know it!_ _»_

«Just two more years.»

_«_ _Will you still be there?_ _»_

Shiro’s smile only grew wider. «Well, I did get selected for the accelerated spaceflight training program.»

Ryou’s groggy shout of joy made him laugh. _«_ _You’re the best, Takashi._ _»_ He yawned again. _«_ _I’m going back to bed._ _»_

«Get your sleep,» Shiro replied, still chuckling at Ryou’s glee.

He walked into Iverson’s office just in time to see him and Keith. Brain still stuck in Japanese-mode, he greeted them in Japanese, then stumbled over his English to apologize.

He certainly didn’t expect Keith to reply with a quiet «Konbanwa,» as though it was automatic.

“You speak Japanese?” Shiro blurted out.

“A little,” Keith replied, avoiding eye contact.

Shiro just stood and stared. He had never even suspected, even though he should have. Though Keith didn’t look it, his last name implied he was of Japanese descent. Shiro squinted. Well, he could kind of see it. Dark hair, delicate cheekbones. Maybe he had a Japanese grandparent.

Iverson said something to Keith, quietly enough that Shiro couldn’t pick up on it, and walked to his office, closing the door behind him.

Without a word, Keith dropped into a chair and pulled the textbooks out of his bag, laying the tablet on top of them. He gave Shiro an expectant look, nudging the tablet an inch in his direction.

Montgomery’s words from only a half hour ago came back to him in a rush. Keith might have been any number of things, but he wasn’t a slacker. Keith had read a half dozen textbooks, textbooks meant for four-month semesters, in a matter of weeks. And not only read them, but completed all the practice problems and retained most of what he learned.

Shrinking in on himself when Shiro still didn’t move, Keith pulled the tablet back into his lap and stared at the table. The way he hunched his shoulders made his collarbones pop from his chest, far too visible. Keith was skinny in a way Shiro had never noticed before, the kind of skinny from not having enough food for months and months. And he was passing up meals now just to work on what Shiro had assigned him.

That thought finally stunned Shiro into motion. He sat opposite Keith and picked up the tablet.

Keith had scored 85% on the basic chemistry questions, and a staggering 98% on his test on three-variable algebraic equations.

He was sure his eyebrows had taken up residence somewhere just past his hairline.

“Wow. Okay. Let’s start with foundational physics, then.”

Keith listened attentively, worked quietly, and asked no questions. He kept his eyes fixed to the science book and the tablet.

Shiro kept his eyes fixed to Keith.

He’d never seen it before, the wrinkle between Keith’s eyebrows when he hit a snag with a question or concept. How he would read a paragraph over and over to make sure he understood before continuing. How he never let his confusion show.

Most tutors would have killed for a student like Keith. He was essentially self-teaching, and all Shiro had to do was drop the right books in his lap and set up some questions on the tablet every other day.

Keith tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear as he worked through the day’s test. Shiro followed the motion of his hand, then let his gaze trail back to Keith’s face.

A face locked onto his own with a scowl.

“What do you want?” Keith snapped.

Shiro’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments before he stammered out, “What?”

“I know you don’t like me,” Keith said, voice suddenly soft and crackly, but still holding a defiant edge. He swallowed hard and crossed his arms before he continued. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do this anymore. I know I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Commander Iverson said he can get a different tutor for me.”

It was more than Keith had ever said to him in one go, more emotion than he had ever shown, and Shiro had no idea how to respond.

After another moment of awkward silence, Keith pushed the books and tablet to Shiro’s side of the table.

“Okay,” he whispered, standing and turning towards Iverson’s private office.

Shiro’s brain finally caught up. “Wait, Keith.” His hand shot out, fingers stretching towards Keith. “Wait. Please.”

Back to his normal silence, Keith twisted his head around and, well, waited.

“I’m sorry. I’ve... I haven’t...” Shiro stammered, shaking his head. “I haven’t been fair to you. Can we try this again?”

The words stung, leaving him a little raw. But Keith took a careful step back towards the table and slid into his seat once more.

“Okay,” Keith whispered again.

Relief coursed through Shiro’s veins, so strong it hurt, and the ache of it surprised him enough to make his head spin.

“Okay,” Shiro echoed, picking up the tablet. “Let’s see how you did with physics.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew what he wanted to do, and he wanted to do this.

Keith frowned at his tablet, trying not to cry in front of Shirogane – Shiro, he’d asked Keith to call him Shiro. Math and science hadn’t been that bad. Anything he hadn’t known, he could figure out with a little time and effort. But history? He couldn’t just _figure out_ history. He couldn’t just work his way through it. Either he remembered what he read or he didn’t, and right now he couldn’t remember shit.

“Keith?”

Shiro’s voice startled him, and he flinched, then snapped his head up. Shiro’s face looked pinched, in a way. Tight and disappointed. Even though Keith had struggled a little more with the last two math and science subjects, Shiro had smiled so brilliantly when he saw Keith’s scores on the final foundational physics and geometry tests last week. But now Keith’s streak of good luck had run out and Shiro would see how useless he really was.

“Hey, Keith, what’s wrong?” Shiro was all softness and gentleness and concern.

“Huh?” Something tickled his cheek and he swiped his hand at it, jerking again when it came away damp.

He was crying.

He scrambled back, nearly tipping over the chair as he struggled to push it back on the thin carpet, and flailed to stay upright.

Suddenly, Shiro was kneeling at his side, hands gripping Keith’s. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Deep breaths. What’s wrong?”

Keith jerked his hands free and shoved the tablet across the table. It slipped off the other side and smacked the floor with a sharp crack.

“This is bullshit!” he cried.

Shiro shrank away at Keith’s outburst, hands still hovering in the air between them as though he didn’t know whether to soothe or defend. Keith coughed a few times, trying to clear his throat, but it remained tight despite his efforts.

“I’m never going to get it,” he whimpered, wincing at how nasally his voice was. “I’ll never get in.”

He flicked his eyes up at Shiro, who looked shocked and slightly horrified. Of course. All of Shiro’s work was for naught. Keith knew he was useless, and now he’d shown it. He couldn’t learn history and he couldn’t keep himself together.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time,” he choked out, voice now a hoarse whisper.

Shiro grabbed his shoulders, and Keith didn’t resist him this time. Instead, he curled down and braced himself for the dismissal, the confirmation that he just wouldn’t cut it.

“Keith, no. You’re not a waste of time. You – you’re brilliant. I’ve never seen someone learn as quickly as you do. But no one learns everything instantly. Sometimes it takes time.” He squeezed once; Keith’s eyes stung. “Patience yields focus.”

The words settled a little off-balance, and Keith blinked away the tears. “What does that even mean?”

Shiro huffed out a sigh. “If you’re patient with yourself and your strengths and limitations, you can focus on the problem and come to understand it better.” He stood and held out a hand to Keith. “Come on, let’s go.”

His hand looked just as strong and broad as the rest of his body, and Keith stared blankly at it. Patience yields focus? If it worked for Shiro, it would work for him, right?

Keith looked up at Shiro, who smiled softly at him. “Where are we going?”

“Flight sims. You’ve covered four years of math and science in a month and a half; you’ve earned a break.”

A traitorous smile pulled at the corner of Keith’s mouth. He wasn’t supposed to be proud of anything, but Shiro looked so proud of him that he couldn’t squash the feeling.

Shiro had warmed up to him considerably over the past three weeks, after he had apologized to Keith and asked to stay on as his tutor. Since then, he’d seemed almost friendly, almost welcoming and cheerful. Keith had even asked for help, and Shiro was nothing but nice about it.

And Keith hadn’t had any chilled goosebumps in the office while Shiro was there.

He placed his hand in Shiro’s.

“Bathroom first, though,” Shiro said, pulling Keith to his feet. “So you can wash your face. I’m sure it’s itchy.”

Keith brushed a thumbnail over his cheek, and the skin twitched at his touch. “How did you know?”

“You’re not the only person who has been overwhelmed to the point of tears before,” Shiro answered, leading the way out of the office.

Oh.

Shiro had...?

But he always seemed so perfect, so composed.

The bathroom was just around the corner from Iverson’s office, and Shiro waited outside, chatting with Iverson and Marisa as they walked past, back from their meetings.

Keith splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror, almost unable to recognize the face staring back at him. Clean, tamed hair. Cheekbones no longer so sharply prominent. Eyes a bit bright and puffy, but the cold water helped. His belt was one notch looser today, too.

He almost looked like someone who would belong here.

He shook his head and dried his face, meeting up with Shiro in the hallway.

Shiro gave him the usual polite smile. “Remember the way to the sims?”

Keith shook his head, and Shiro placed a hand between his shoulderblades, leading him through winding halls and to the elevators, down a level and through glass-lined corridors. Keith hadn’t paid attention to them before, but now he slowed and dragged his fingertips along the windows, gazing at the central auditorium-type room with a single giant simulator in it, one far larger than the one Keith had flown before.

“That’s the sim for team flights in space.” Shiro rested a forearm on the metal support between two of the panes of glass, face flat with the tiniest frown. “We can goof off in the other sims, but that one is for serious flights only. Screw around there, and Iverson and Montgomery will tear you a new – well, they won’t be pleased.”

Shiro’s eyes glittered with mischief. Something bubbled up in Keith’s chest, and he almost asked if Shiro was speaking from experience.

Instead, he choked the words down, and followed Shiro around to a different room on the outside of the circle – the same atrium that held the sims Keith had seen his first time. A group of cadets surrounding Montgomery all turned their heads in unison at the door’s hiss, and Keith took a half-step behind Shiro.

“Commander,” Shiro barked, saluting, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware you had a class at this time.”

She waved them in. “It’s fine; we were just finishing up. I see you brought Keith.”

Keith moved the rest of the way behind Shiro, who wasn’t having it, and drew Keith around to his side. The cadets stared as Shiro led him into the room, murmuring to each other and studying him like a lab specimen, like a frog students used to dissect.

“Are any of the sims open?” Shiro asked.

Montgomery grinned. It was the same kind that had made Iverson scowl more than once. “How’s a pairs run sound?”

Seeing that same grin on Shiro’s face sent a jolt down Keith’s spine, and he could understand why Iverson didn’t like it.

“Pairs runs are more for fun than for evaluation purposes, though they’re good for seeing how compatible two pilots are. We would have to follow a set path and list of flight maneuvers, while keeping close but not too close to each other,” Shiro explained quietly. “We’ll have headsets to communicate. But you don’t know the names of the maneuvers, do you.”

Keith shook his head and glanced over at Montgomery.

She smiled again, a little less feral this time. “I’ll be honest, Keith, I just want to see how well you can keep up with Shiro.” A few cadets started whispering at that, and she tilted her head. “Do you mind if my class watches?”

His stomach twisted and fell to his feet and he took a step back. No, please no. But Shiro gave him such a soft look, and he couldn’t deny Shiro, not while he still relied on him for tutoring.

“Is that alright, Keith?”

“Sure,” he croaked.

Shiro helped fit him for a flight suit, a lightweight but bulky thing that made Keith feel like a marshmallow. But as he sat in the pilot seat, and the suit connected to all the systems, it felt as natural as a second skin. Shiro swiped a card in the machine like Montgomery had the first time, inputting K Kogane as the pilot name.

The cadets burst into excited chatter. Keith squeezed his eyes shut, only opening them when Shiro patted his shoulder.

“You can do this.” Then Shiro donned his own flight suit, and gave Keith a final smile before shutting the hatch of the simulator.

The displays lit up.

Keith’s heart began to race. How could he fly a sim in front of all those cadets? Everyone watching and scrutinizing and judging him.

_“Keith? Are you okay?”_ Shiro’s voice came in loud and clear over the headset. _“The suit says your heart rate and respiration are pretty high.”_

As he gasped and struggled not to hyperventilate, Keith’s eyes scanned the display and locked onto a section he’d never seen before, a few numbers highlighted in orange. Those must have been his vitals. Maybe the flight suit tracked them.

Shiro called out to him again, and he coughed and sputtered, trying to get his lungs under control.

What was it Shiro had said before?

Patience yields focus.

He inhaled and exhaled in slow, shaky bursts. Eventually the numbers changed to yellow. That was better, right?

“Yeah,” Keith choked out. “I’m okay. Let’s get started.”

Shiro was quiet for a moment, and then the sandbox level appeared on the screens. _“Let’s get you familiar with this again.”_

The controls came back to Keith pretty quickly, and a few minutes later, he was whipping through rolls and turns as naturally as walking down a hall.

_“Easy there, tiger. Get ready. We’re doing the Needle run.”_

That meant nothing to Keith, so he simply said, “Okay.”

The sandbox disappeared, replaced by two fighter jets on a runway, surrounded by desert and mountains. The jet in front of Keith’s was translucent.

_“I’ll go a little slow through the first section so you can get used to how I fly, since I’ll be in the lead for most of this.”_

“Most?”

_“There are a few sections of side-by-side, and one where you will lead.”_

Keith swallowed hard, heart racing with something other than fear.

He could do this. He could keep up with Shiro, right?

The flight path flickered to life on the screen, Keith’s in red and Shiro’s in muted blue. Part of Keith’s path was brighter than the rest: the acceptable distance from Shiro’s jet.

Shiro took off with a boom, and Keith shoved forward on his controls, catching up easily. The sim tilted and turned with his jet. With no one to see him, he let the broad grin take over his face. Shiro led him in a few lazy turns over the landscape, followed by some tighter spirals and a roll. Keith didn’t keep his jet quite as steady as Shiro kept his, but he did keep the correct distance and mimicked the angle of attack pretty well.

_“Good, you’ve got the hang of it. See the spires north of us? That’s where we’re headed.”_

Keith’s limbs ached with adrenaline. “Got it,” he whispered, too breathless to properly voice his words.

And Shiro dived, banked, twisted and turned, banking through the spires, over a river and into a canyon. Every move he made, he said a single phrase, like _“bank left, and watch out for the crosswind,”_ or _“dive, but not too steep,”_ or _“side by side here,”_ and Keith followed faithfully. He was a little queasy from the rapid movement of the sim pod, the turbulence of the crosswind, and maybe also from the sheer thrill of flying. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was only the image of a jet flying wingtip-to-wingtip with Shiro’s.

Then Shiro let out a shout, startling Keith so much that he almost yanked back on his controls.

“Shiro? What’s wrong?” Keith asked, a little frantic. Was Shiro okay? Did he hurt himself somehow? The simulators really did jerk the pilots around pretty hard, even with the flight suit systems to keep them in place.

_“No one has ever kept up with me through that section,”_ Shiro replied, sounding a little breathless over the headset. _“Your turn to lead. You don’t need to call out what you’re doing.”_

Keith pressed forward, picking up a little speed and passing Shiro’s jet. The sim felt like it might shake apart any moment at how fast they were flying through the level, but Keith only pushed it harder.

The flight path took them through a series of narrow passes, at varying angles. Keith attacked them all with a ferocity he reserved for life or death situations, whipping the sim in and out and up and down so hard the mechanisms keened.

A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead and into his left eye. He squeezed it shut for a moment and blinked until the stinging faded, unwilling to let go of the controls to wipe it away.

_“Coming up on your left for the last side-by-side. Slow down so I can catch up!”_ Shiro’s voice, almost playful, crackled in the headset.

Keith let up his screaming pace just a hair, and soon Shiro’s jet blinked into view on the display to his left. As one, they spun around a central mesa, then split off to weave through more twinned spires, regrouping for the final approach towards the runway. Shiro landed first, and Keith circled once to let Shiro’s jet taxi off the landing strip before he touched down.

_“Sit tight. I’ll get you out in a second.”_

The leaderboard blinked as all the names shifted down. Keith hadn’t even paid attention to it before; most of them were T Shirogane with someone else, the highest of those being L Montgomery.

Except the top spot, T Shirogane and K Kogane, with twice the score of the second ranked run.

The pod door popped open with a hiss. Shiro leaned on it, face split with a wide grin and hair plastered to his forehead with a sheen of sweat. He shook his head, chest heaving, and let out a bark of laughter.

“You really are something,” he declared, flashing an even more dazzling smile in Keith’s direction.

Keith’s heart began to race again as Shiro helped him out of the pilot chair. Had he actually impressed him?

The cadets swarmed around them, and Keith flinched back, slipping from Shiro’s hands and stumbling over the step up to the pod. His eyes dropped to the floor, to the cluster of identical boots.

And then Shiro stepped forward, placing himself between Keith and the cadets, back to his usual distant politeness as he answered their questions. Most of what he said sounded like technical jargon, probably related to flying.

Keith didn’t recognize a word of it. He frowned and sat back down in the cockpit seat, running his right hand over the controls. His arms shook as the adrenaline faded, and the tears that he’d washed away in the bathroom threatened once more. How could he be a pilot if he didn’t even understand anything? History, flying... even the math and science classes, he’d just fumbled through them and somehow came out alright in the end.

The conversation outside the pod dulled to a muffled buzz. Keith squeezed his eyes shut and hugged his elbows.

Soon, a bell tone rang out, and the muffled buzz faded, replaced by boots scuffing along the floor. Something rested on his shoulder – a hand. Keith looked up.

“I’m definitely looking forward to having you as a student,” Montgomery said, giving him a squeeze. The few lingering cadets whispered amongst themselves again, and she shooed them out. “Let’s get you out of that flight suit.”

Between Montgomery and Shiro, it took all of ten seconds to unfasten and remove the flight suit. Keith’s shirt stuck to his chest, and his jeans felt awkward and inflexible with sweat.

Shiro stepped out of his own suit, smiling as he pulled his uniform jacket on over his undershirt. “How’s some fresh air sound?”

Five minutes later, they leaned against the railing three levels up from the sims, gazing out over the impressive team spaceflight simulator.

“I haven’t flown for fun like that in months,” Shiro said, staring off past the sim and slumping. He didn’t seem to be speaking directly to Keith so much as unburdening himself to the air. “God, I feel like I’m not even living my own life anymore. All my time is spent on other people.”

Oh.

Keith bit his lip and looked down at his beat-up shoes. Of course Shiro saw tutoring him as a burden, even if he’d been nicer lately. The hair on his forearms rose on end, and he stepped back from the railing to rub the warmth back into his skin.

Shiro huffed, picking up steam. “I mean, I’m supposed to be working out right now, but if I go there, I’ll get mobbed by people who want me to be their personal trainer. Just like how I can’t fly a sim for fun without all the pilot cadets in the area descending upon it. I can’t even eat lunch without someone asking me to look over their homework. I just...”

His face was pinched in on itself in something between a wince and a frown.

“Then why did you sign up for tutoring me?” Keith blurted out, flinching as the words left his mouth and snapping his head back down.

The hallway was quiet for nearly a minute.

“Iverson approved my request for live flights starting this summer. He said if I tutored you, he’d push them from once a month to every week.” He patted Keith on the back. “Speaking of which, I think what you might need for your history studies is some perspective.”

Keith risked a glance up at Shiro. “Perspective?”

“Perspective. History is less about memorizing facts and dates, and more about understanding where humanity has come from and what we have done. It’s a study of the best and worst of human nature, through observable events. Try reading the first few chapters with that in mind, okay?”

Keith nodded. So Shiro really hadn’t wanted to tutor, and only did because Iverson offered him something in return. He could at least try to be worthy of Shiro’s time.

******

Iverson had never relished Fridays the way he did now, when he could go home and attempt to spend time with Keith over the weekend. He had managed, over the past few weeks, to convince the boy to set aside his homework for three hours every Friday evening in order to share dinner and watch a movie together.

And thus, his movie collection was rapidly growing as he searched for something appropriate for Keith.

Keith sat at the far end of the couch, perched like a cat, his eyes tracking Iverson’s every move. He still didn’t speak much, but he had grabbed one of his new blankets and draped it over his shoulders tonight. That was a good sign, right? He was getting comfortable, right?

Dinner was simple, as always: some cheap steaks and steamed broccoli. Iverson had learned to cook as a necessity to survival, rather than out of genuine interest. Keith never complained, though, and never turned down whatever Iverson offered.

It wasn’t yet clear whether that was a good thing like the blanket might be.

Iverson stabbed the steaks with the closest fork and dropped one onto each plate, then followed with two scoops of the broccoli, and two wedges of leftover baked sweet potatoes from Wednesday. If Keith was going to put on weight, it would be healthy weight, if he had anything to do with it.

“Steak and veggies tonight,” he said, carrying the plates into the living room. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Keith wiggled his arms free from the blanket and took the plate Iverson offered him, carefully cradling the fork and knife against it. “It’s fine. Thank you,” he said, setting about methodically cutting the meat into small bites.

He had been wide-eyed and hesitant the first time Iverson gave him a knife, hand shaking as he had picked it up. Like he had been afraid of it, or of using it, or of a knife existing in the presence of Iverson.

Progress. Tangible progress. Iverson sighed, and his chest shed some of its tightness.

“How’s tutoring going?”

Keith curled around his plate. “It’s alright. History is going better now.”

“That’s good.”

Keith nodded and continued eating in silence.

“And you’re getting along better with Shiro now?” Iverson asked. Keith nodded again, eyes still on his plate, mouth full of steak. Iverson patted him on the back. “I saw your pairs run with him.”

At that, Keith froze, twisting around in his blanket and studying Iverson’s face.

“You did really well, and you’ll be a phenomenal pilot some day. I’m really proud of you.”

Keith stared at him, eyes bright. He swallowed hard, then ducked his head.

And smiled.

A choir of angels might as well have appeared around them, singing songs of hallelujah, for the joy that smile brought Iverson.

“Keep up the good work with the tutoring, and you’ll be a cadet in no time,” he said.

Keith smiled again, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders and shuffling a couple inches closer to the center of the couch. “What’s the movie tonight?”

******

The hall never felt so suffocating or cold as it did now at Hedrick’s question.

“So, who’s this Kogane?”

Shiro kept his arms clamped to his sides to keep from crossing them and turning away from Lieutenant Hedrick. He was not a petulant child, and he would not act like one, no matter how satisfying it would feel.

A shiver ran up his spine as he forced his arms still. He really should have known better than to do a pairs run. He should also have known better than to venture outside his dorm today when he wanted nothing more than to bury himself under the covers, but it was too late to undo that choice now.

He’d had pretty good luck with brushing off anyone who asked him about the mysterious K Kogane on the Florida run leaderboard, able to honestly say then that he didn’t know any cadet with the last name Kogane at the Garrison. Most people had left it alone after that.

But now that their names were together at the top of the Needle run leaderboard, everyone wanted to know everything about Keith. Few were satisfied with his simple statement that Keith was an aspiring pilot who was interested in the Garrison Academy. Even fewer still appreciated the perpetual frown on his face after the fifth time answering.

Shiro had spent a lot more time in his room since then, neglecting his fellow cadets to an absolutely shameful degree. Which was probably why Hedrick had sought him out. Someone had to remind him of his responsibilities, after all.

As if he didn’t already know them.

“I’m pretty sure half the cadets in the fighter program could answer that for you by now, sir,” he answered, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

Hedrick’s brows furrowed, before he gave Shiro a weary smile. “Sorry. Bet you’ve been asked that a lot lately.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were quiet a little while longer – broken only by a stray cadet asking Shiro his recommendation on the best fighter sim practice runs to prepare for Montgomery’s tests – before Hedrick pulled Shiro into an empty conference room. Half the lights were still off, casting the room in a half-shadowed haze.

“Spill,” he demanded.

Shiro hesitated, sizing up Hedrick’s posture. Relaxed shoulders and loosely crossed arms; single raised eyebrow accompanying a similarly asymmetrical smile; one foot brushing against the other leg’s calf as he leaned against the wall.

Not an actual order.

“He’s a kid I’ve been tutoring at Iverson’s request,” Shiro replied. “I’m not sure how he found Keith, but apparently Montgomery let Keith have a go at the Florida run just for fun.”

Hedrick chuckled. “Sounds about right for Montgomery.” He inhaled, held the breath a moment, and huffed. “I’ve been where you are, Shiro.”

“Huh? How so?” Shiro tilted his head to the right just a hair.

“Well, both ways, but not at the same time. As a cadet, it was feeling like my time wasn’t my own. But as a pilot and an instructor, it was watching someone surpass me and not knowing how to feel about it.”

Oh.

When Shiro had started breaking records on the sims, he’d never even thought about the names he booted off the leaderboards. A lot of them had been T Hedrick. And Lieutenant Hedrick had never been anything other than kind and gracious to Shiro.

Shiro slumped, grabbing the table and dropping into the nearest chair. “I... I never...”

Hedrick’s smile softened into a straight line. “I know. I made sure to treat you as an ally and potential future teammate before I made up my mind about you. Maybe I even saw you as a possible copilot.”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathed, staring down at the desk.

“Maybe even a friend,” Hedrick added, nodding his head towards Shiro.

Shiro looked up at him through the fluff of hair over his forehead.

“It’s lonely at the top,” he continued, “and I never had anyone overlapping with my time as a cadet who I could relate to. The nonstop questions didn’t help, either. But if this Keith Kogane is someone who would overlap with you, well, I’d take that chance. Make a friend. Be the two of you together against any obstacles, rather than on your own against each other.”

A different kind of shiver ran up Shiro’s spine now. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled under the collar of his uniform jacket.

Yeah, he’d been pretty cold to Keith from the start. And Keith had been nothing but... well, shy. A little clueless. And compliant, in a kind of fragile way. And Keith had done nothing but try his absolute best at everything Shiro threw at him, despite all the stress it seemed to put on him.

“Yeah, I...” he started, trailing off and looking down at his hands.

Hedrick stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “It’s a lot. And if he’s as good as he seems, he’ll face the same things you are now. I’ve done my best to be a supportive resource for you. Maybe you could be the same for him.”

The corners of Shiro’s mouth twitched, and he hummed to himself. “I guess. That’s... that’s probably why Iverson asked me to tutor him. I just... I’ve worked so hard.”

He trailed off again, stretching his fingers to relieve the odd ache in them as shame rolled through him. Keith wasn’t taking anything away from him in being so naturally skilled. Keith was just trying to make it, like Shiro was, like everyone else in the Academy was.

“The Garrison Academy isn’t supposed to be competitive, even though people make it that way. Now, I’m not going to order you to do a certain thing about Kogane,” Hedrick said, “but I will strongly suggest you actually think it over.”

Shiro nodded and stood. “Yes, sir.”

He needed an attitude adjustment; a change in perspective. He needed to be more positive. And he would start now.

Five minutes later, when one of the cargo pilot cadets stopped him in the hall to ask him who K Kogane was, he smiled at her.

“Well, he’s a really promising pilot I’ve been tutoring. Hopefully he’ll be accepted here next fall.”

******

Iverson sighed and dragged his hands down his face, then curled his fingers around the packet of paper, staring at the email printout serving as a cover sheet.

He had spent hours on the phone over the past week with the family law firms he originally contacted, and then repeated all that with a few private investigators the law firms contracted. All said there was absolutely nothing to be found with any of Keith’s known personal information. As far as the government was concerned, Keith didn’t exist.

Fortunately, one of the out of state lawyers was able to get him in touch with a local office who could help get the paperwork in motion for all of Keith’s vital documents to make a formal guardianship arrangement.

And thus they presented him with a choice he didn’t know how to make.

“Rough day, Mitch?”

Marisa stood in his doorway, an unreadable half-smile on her face. Iverson muttered under his breath, rolling the papers into a tight bundle.

“All of this really makes me wonder what the hell Keith has been through.” He twisted the roll, froze, and uncurled it, smoothing them flat.

Marisa’s smile softened. “You must really care for him.”

“Someone has to.”

She rolled her eyes at his reply and sat in the chair opposite his desk. “Mitch, you’ve never been this invested in anyone before. Not even Aisling.”

Iverson grumbled at that. “My day was much better before you mentioned her.”

Her cheeks darkened, and she sucked in a deep breath. He could tell she was winding up to a long lecture of some sort, the kind that he tolerated on most subjects but definitely not on his failed romantic life. He rose to his feet, stretching the stiffness out of his left knee, and glowered at her.

“Save it for later.”

He breezed right past her, out his office, and down the hall to where the non-Academy Garrison staff had their offices. He had set up a lunch meeting with Sam Holt for next week, but this couldn’t wait.

Holt was at his desk, glasses askew as he flipped through two books simultaneously. Iverson rapped his knuckles on the glass, giving a short nod when Holt whipped his head up and waved him inside.

“Sam,” he greeted as he stepped into the office, “sorry to interrupt, but...”

Snapping the two books shut and scooting them to the side of the desk, Holt shrugged off Iverson’s apology. “But it’s important, right?”

Iverson simply passed him the packet of papers, relaxing into the chair. Holt kept his office nice and warm the first few months back from his space missions, and the heat wrapped around Iverson like a cozy blanket.

Holt’s eyebrows furrowed as he read the email, then rose to his hairline as he paged through the three attached documents. “Well, that’s something. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“No,” Iverson huffed. “That’s what I need your advice for. You have two kids, and you’re by all accounts a good father to them.”

A lopsided smile spread across Holt’s face; Iverson had seen the same on his son Matt several times after a compliment.

“What are you so worried about?” Holt asked.

“I....” Iverson trailed off before he could even form a thought. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to be a parent.”

Holt leaned forward, resting an elbow on his desk. “No one does at the start. You’ll learn as you go along. But if you commit to this, you really have to do it.” He leaned back and frowned. “I don’t regret all the trips I’ve taken off-planet, but I do regret missing so much time in my children’s lives.”

Iverson’s lip curled up into a smile. He knew full well that the Holt family had devised some kind of hidden method of communicating without alerting anyone else, and that the Holt family knew that he knew. But he allowed them that indulgence and never said anything.

Would he and Keith eventually have that kind of bond?

He huffed. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do, but I don’t know if I can do it without making mistakes left and right.”

Holt smiled again, though this time was a little more balanced, rather than his usual smirk. “You’ll make mistakes, no doubt about that. Every parent does. I have; I still do. What matters is that you always try to do right by your children. Admit your mistakes. Learn from them, make up for them, and never stop trying to do better.”

Iverson sighed and nodded. “Makes sense.”

His eyes fell on a framed picture on Holt’s desk, in one of the only clear spots. It was his entire family and their dog, smiling at the camera. On the wall above it was a photo of his son Matt in a first-year cadet’s uniform. Next to that was a picture of his daughter Katie, holding an award for something.

Holt noticed his wandering gaze and chuckled to himself. “It does make sense, but it’s not easy. Just remember, the best parents aren’t the ones who do everything right the first time. They’re the ones who never stop striving to be better people for their children.”

Iverson frowned, slightly. Would that work with Keith? The boy seemed so scared that a major mistake could send him running, before Iverson even had the time to make up for it.

He could strive to be better, though. He wouldn’t let Keith spend the rest of his childhood with someone who didn’t care for him.

Maybe he’d get a picture of Keith for his office.

Holt handed back the papers and let his face soften into something a little more balanced. “Personally, I think you’ve been given an amazing opportunity. I know you always wanted to be a father, and I think you’d be a good one. Now, even though it’s not the usual path, you have that chance.”

“Yeah,” Iverson said, a little dazed. The papers felt twice as heavy in his hands, but he idly flipped through them again, then stood to leave. “Thanks for the advice, Sam.”

“Of course, Mitch. Any time,” Sam said with a smile. “And I’d like to meet this kid some day. He’s the one causing all the stir on the simulators, right?”

Iverson nodded, probably looking ridiculously proud. Keith had so much potential, and he was going to be amazing some day.

“Maybe be a little easier on him than you are on the cadets,” Holt quipped.

Iverson scoffed. With a wave, he left Holt’s office and returned to his own, dropping into his chair and staring at the printed email once more. He shook his head and flipped to the next page.

_Short-Term Foster Care Arrangement_

It wasn’t the one he wanted. He turned to the next page.

_Long-Term Foster Care Arrangement_

Iverson sighed. That would be the easy answer, but it wasn’t the right one. He grabbed a pen and, with a deep breath, turned to the last page. He shivered, whether from the relative cold compared to Holt’s office or... something else.

He knew what he wanted to do. And he wanted to do this.

_Fostering with Intent to Adopt_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got myself a tumblr (amairawrites) and have no clue what to do with it. Any suggestions would be welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith's world gets a little larger, and a little smaller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains casual racist microaggressions. Please keep that in mind if that kind of thing disturbs you.
> 
> Again, text in these carrots denotes Japanese: «text»

Iverson stretched and rested his elbows on his desk. He had long resigned himself to getting very little work done on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, when he could peek out the strip of glass next to his office door and watch Keith and Shiro study. But at least those days, he didn’t feel like he’d swallowed a brick like he did when Keith was home alone.

The two boys sat across from each other at the low table, their tablets in hand, discussing something. They seemed happy.

How did other parents deal with it? How could they work every day and not worry about their children? How could they go on months-long trips to space, away from their kids, and still be okay? Iverson buried his face in his hands, secretly happy he’d allowed a degree of leniency for parents beyond what was outlined in the Garrison’s guidelines.

Through the window, Keith was now hard at work on his tablet as Shiro stole glances at him. Iverson smiled. Shiro would be a good ally for Keith to have during his first year at the Garrison Academy.

He looked down at a new set of paperwork forwarded to him by his attorney – because he had his own attorney now, just to handle Keith-related things, rather than simply using the Garrison’s legal services.

Iverson sighed. Even the paralegal he spoke with on the phone last week was baffled by the situation. At first glance, neither he nor Keith could do anything. As a minor, Keith needed a parent or legal guardian to get a new birth certificate and social security number. And until he had those and was part of the foster care system, Iverson wasn’t actually his legal guardian.

It seemed the attorney was worth her fees, as her paralegal had sent this giant folder of papers to Iverson, and the papers seemed to show some kind of progress. Iverson would need to speak with a social worker, but it looked like Keith had a path to legal existence through a liberal interpretation of the Safe Surrender laws that let mothers surrender babies they couldn’t care for at police stations.

When he looked up again, Shiro held Keith’s tablet and absolutely beamed, while Keith, tucking his chin to his collarbones, wore the ghost of a shy smile on his face. They stood and walked right to Iverson’s office door, knocking softly before cracking it open.

“Do you have a moment, sir?” Shiro asked, poking his head into the office, trying and failing to maintain a serious expression.

Iverson pushed the paperwork aside and waved them in. “Come on in.”

Keith followed Shiro, wringing his hands and hunching his shoulders, a slight blush darkening his cheeks. Iverson had never seen him look so bashful. Keith twitched as Shiro rested his hand on Keith’s back and pushed him forward a step.

“Go on, Keith, tell him,” he said, a soft note in his voice that Iverson had never heard before.

Keith looked down at the floor. His lips twitched with a rebellious smile. “I passed all the eighth grade coursework.”

The words took a moment to register, before a broad grin spread over Iverson’s face. He rose to his feet, stepping around his desk and holding his arms open. Keith glanced to his left and right, then back at Shiro, before darting forward and wrapping his arms around Iverson’s waist.

“I’m so proud of you.” Iverson squeezed Keith’s shoulders, then nodded at Shiro, a silent thanks for all his help. Shiro nodded and saluted him in return, quietly taking his leave.

After a few more seconds, Keith began to fidget, tilting his head up towards Iverson’s. “What do I do now?”

Iverson dropped his arms from Keith’s shoulders. “Well, there’s end-of-year standardized testing you’ll need to take in about a month, and then the entrance exams for the Garrison Academy a month after that. But before we do any of that, we need to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” Keith echoed. One of his eyebrows rose just slightly above the other.

“Yeah, kid. You’ve done really well. It’s worth celebrating.”

Keith’s head tilted a bit as his eyebrow rose higher. “I... what do we do to celebrate?”

“Go out to dinner, watch your favorite movie, whatever you’d like. But first, I got some paperwork I need your input on. Do you want Kogane to be your last name?”

******

A few nights later, Iverson scored an early exit from work, two small boxes tucked under his arm. He’d take Keith out to dinner somewhere in the small downtown restaurant block, and surprise him with the new phone and tablet. Maybe he’d get a photo of the two of them for his own phone’s background or to frame on his desk. Like a parent should, right?

The drive home was uneventful as usual, and he spent most of the trip checking the back seat in the rearview mirror to make sure the boxes weren’t sliding too much.

A smile crept over his face as he imagined Keith’s reaction.

He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, not taking his boots off like he usually did. They’d be leaving in a minute, anyway.

“Hey Keith, I’m home,” he called out. He draped his uniform coat over its two coat pegs, trading it for his lightweight field jacket.

Keith’s head poked out from his bedroom. “You’re early.”

“Get your shoes on. We’re going out for dinner.”

A smile flickered across Keith’s face as he complied, tugging on his shoes. The right one had a patch of tape over it.

“What happened to your shoe?” Iverson asked, already arranging his schedule around buying Keith a new pair.

Keith looked up, eyes wide. “It – the seam just – gave out.” He hunched his shoulders. “It’s fine. The tape is holding.”

Iverson sighed. “We’ll get you new shoes.”

“They’re fine,” Keith started. He clamped his mouth shut when Iverson huffed and scowled.

“No, Keith, you can’t go around in taped-together shoes. It’s bad for your feet.” He grabbed Keith’s hoodie from the coat pegs, and repeated, “We’ll get you new ones.”

Quietly, Keith ducked his head and nodded, shrugging on his hoodie and following Iverson out to the Jeep.

Iverson rubbed his temples before getting in. Maybe the phone and tablet weren’t such a good idea yet. But Keith would need them, just like he would need new shoes.

“What kind of food are you hungry for? This dinner is for you, you know,” he said.

“Um... gyros?”

The Jeep roared to life, and Iverson gave Keith a quick smile. “Sure thing, kid.”

As seemed to be the usual for Keith, the boy plastered his face to the window and watched the town pass by, not saying a word. They passed the police station, and Keith leaned away from the glass, then rested his head on it again as soon as the building was gone from view.

“Keith?”

His eyebrows drew together and he turned to study Iverson instead. After a moment, he dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet. “I... I’d like new shoes.”

A thrill spread through Iverson’s bones and he had to grip the steering wheel twice as tight to keep his attention on driving. Keith had never, ever openly stated what he wanted before.

“Food first, or shoes first?” he asked.

Keith fidgeted. “Shoes.”

Iverson nodded and took a left towards the shopping district at the next intersection, rather than continuing straight to the restaurants. There was bound to be a shoe store in there somewhere, and it didn’t take long for him to spot one. A half-block past it, he found an open parking spot and eased the Jeep into it, grumbling under his breath.

He never did like parallel parking.

Keith watched him, looking somewhat fascinated, and Iverson’s grumble caught in his throat. In just a couple years, he’d be the one teaching Keith to drive.

Iverson’s eyes flicked to the back seat. He didn’t want to leave the phone and tablet in his car in broad daylight, but it wasn’t really a good moment to give them. Instead, he grabbed them and carried them with him into the shoe store. Keith spared the boxes a glance as he walked alongside Iverson, but said nothing.

He really was a quiet kid.

Rows upon rows of shoes and sandals and military-style boots greeted them as they entered the shop. A string of old-fashioned metal bells jingled as the door swung shut behind them.

The clerk behind the counter gave them an odd look. Between his brown skin and Keith’s paleness, they clearly weren’t related. He’d have to get used to this if they were going to do any typical family things in the future.

“Well, go take a look and see what you like,” Iverson said, patting Keith on the shoulder and settling in one of the chairs.

With a nod, Keith began a slow circuit of the store, running his fingertips over the display shoes seemingly at random. He lingered on black high-tops, and some plain canvas sneakers, then looped around to a pair of black combat boots with red and white trim. Those he actually picked up, studying them before frowning and setting them down. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled back to Iverson’s side.

Iverson crossed his arms. “Nothing you like?”

Keith shook his head.

“What about those combat boots?”

At that, Keith flinched, looking straight at Iverson before hunching down. “It’s fine.”

Iverson sighed. “Keith, listen. It’s my job to provide for you, and you need new shoes. Good shoes. If those boots are nice and they fit well, get them.”

“They’re really expensive.”

He sighed again, longer and more drawn-out this time. “As long as they’re under three hundred, you can have them,” he said, throwing out a clearly ridiculous number so the kid would just go try on the damn shoes.

Keith’s wide eyes alone nearly made it worth it. He skulked back to the boots and pulled a few boxes from the shelf under it.

His intact shoe tore as he removed it to try on the boot in his hand.

Well, they were definitely leaving with a new pair of something now, no matter how much Keith might try to protest.

A small smile teased at Keith’s lips as he laced up a pair of boots that seemed to fit, and nearly strutted back to Iverson.

“Looks good, kid. How do they fit?”

“They’re... really nice.”

Iverson rose to his feet and patted Keith’s shoulder. “Alright, grab the box and put away the rest of the shoes.”

It took some negotiating for Iverson to make Keith understand that the wrecked shoes were to be thrown out, immediately, and the new boots worn out of the store. But eventually, after Iverson paid and it was too late to back out, the boy acquiesced, tossing the remains of his old shoes in one of the sidewalk trash bins.

As they got back in the Jeep, Keith eyed the boxes in Iverson’s hands once more, startling when Iverson dropped them into his lap.

“Those are for you, too,” he said. “Go on, open them.”

He watched as Keith slowly, suspiciously, eased the smaller box open, lifting the phone from its packaging and turning it over in his hands. Keith immediately put it away, and repeated the process with the larger box and the top-of-the-line tablet it contained.

Then he shoved the boxes at Iverson. “I can’t,” he said, voice thick.

Iverson didn’t take them. “They’re yours, Keith.”

“They’re too much,” Keith insisted, leaning over to leave the boxes in Iverson’s lap.

The exasperated words he wanted to say died on his tongue as he saw the tears gathering in Keith’s eyes.

“Keith? What’s wrong?”

His answer was a sniffle, and then, “I – I’m done with the tutoring. I don’t have – I can’t pay you back.”

Jesus Christ. He rubbed his temples and shook his head. He should have seen this coming. Of course Keith would think the tutoring was a job, a way of earning his keep like he’d been so keen on when he first moved in.

Given how often his coworkers complained about their children whining and demanding the latest whatever, he wondered if he should count his blessings that Keith was the opposite of that. But no, he wanted Keith to be able to ask for what he needed and accept what was given to him.

He sighed. He’d probably sighed more in the past three months than he had in the rest of his life.

“You don’t have to pay me back. You need them, and I got them for you because I wanted to. It was my choice, not yours. Same with the boots.” Iverson handed the phone and tablet back to Keith, who nodded silently. He turned the key in the ignition and put the Jeep in gear. “Keep that phone with you at all times, and call me if you need anything. You can use the tablet for studying or reading.”

It took a little time, some backtracking, and a single U-turn for Iverson to find the small Greek cafe. While Iverson stepped down, Keith shoved the phone into his pocket, then stuffed the tablet box under his seat, before jumping out of the Jeep. Iverson watched him pat his pocket – making sure the phone was secure – with some amusement.

“Come on,” he said, waving Keith ahead, past tall windows and rectangular window boxes full of short, scrubby plants. “Now, you’ll need to break in the boots, so make sure you wear two pairs of socks the first week.”

“Okay.” Keith pushed open the cafe door and held it for Iverson.

It had been months since Iverson last ate here. They had traded in their old fiberboard tables for new ones made of polished wood, and matching wood chairs with wrought iron legs.

They ordered at the counter and sat at a tall table near the bar section. Their food arrived after a few minutes, and Keith dug into his plate of gyros with an unusual enthusiasm, while Iverson unwrapped the pile of dolmades on his plate and popped them into his mouth.

After the second, he looked up at Keith and frowned. Keith was a good kid – _such_ a good kid. And yet he looked downright scared as he dragged his fingertips over the phone-shaped lump in his pocket.

“Keith, you know you never have to pay me back for any of this, right?”

That earned him a startled look and a long moment of silence.

“Why are you doing this?” Keith blurted out, and he dropped his eyes to his gyros. He picked at a few strips of meat but left them on the plate.

Iverson stretched across the table to lay his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Because I want to, and because you deserve someone to take care of you like a parent should take care of their kid.”

Keith squinted, swallowed hard, and nodded.

“How’s,” Keith started, stopped, blushed, and continued in a much quieter voice, “how’s Shiro?”

Iverson stared for a few moments as he gathered his thoughts. He hadn’t seen much of Shiro since Keith’s tutoring was over. And Keith hadn’t seen much of anything besides the inside of his house.

Shiro was the only person that Keith knew here. Shiro was the closest thing Keith had to a friend, and Iverson had just... dropped the connection between the two without a second thought.

He’d have to fix that.

“I can give him your number,” he suggested.

Keith patted his pocket, squeezed the phone through his jeans, and nodded.

******

Shiro found himself wandering aimlessly around the library, looking for something to catch his eye. For three months now, he’d spent every Monday and Wednesday afternoon in Iverson’s office with Keith, and now he didn’t know what to do with himself. For five years now, he’d always had a million things to do to fill his time.

Cadets sat in groups at round tables or solo in the prized cushy armchairs, bent over study guides or textbooks or tablets, signaling the start of the usual spring flood of exams before classes really ramped up towards finals.

This felt almost foreign to him. Just like the entire concept of having free time. When was the last time he’d been in here during normal hours? He always spent so much time in the sims and studying in his own room, alone. And... when was the last time he’d been happy to see any of his classmates the way he’d been happy to see Keith? When had he last considered any of them a friend?

His eyes scanned the tables and peered through the glass walls to the rooms reserved for study groups. Even the low murmurs around him sounded hollow and dead. None of them had Keith’s soft voice.

Shiro sighed. He’d barely given Keith a second thought when he had regularly scheduled meeting times with him. They were friendly, sure. But now that he didn’t know if or when he’d see Keith again, he couldn’t think about anyone else. It almost felt like when he’d first left Japan, the discomfort as he slowly lost touch with all his friends.

The temptation to retreat to his room and relax – or, more likely, stare at the ceiling and mope – grew with every muffled laugh and chirp of a tablet. He certainly hadn’t felt such an ache in his chest in years. Maybe he was getting sick.

Giving the library one final look, Shiro spun on his heel to leave, when a table of three waved him over. He flashed a polite smile, nodding at Brian Sherman, a cargo pilot in his year, and Carlos Sanchez Romero, an engineer a year behind them.

“Hey Shiro! Been a while since we’ve seen you hanging around like this,” Brian said, cheerful but just on the edge of too loud. He was leaning on his elbow, strangely close to the girl to his right – Kelsey Hillebrand, third year fighter pilot cadet.

“Yeah, I’d been tutoring, but that’s done now,” Shiro replied, slipping into a seat at the table. His fingers twitched for his tablet, a lingering muscle memory from the beginning of study sessions with Keith. The corners of his mouth flattened, almost pulled down.

Brian shrugged and grinned. “Everyone wants a piece of Cadet Shirogane, eh? You’re lucky you’re not in the same Orbital Mechanics class with me and Carlos.”

Shiro’s mouth opened and made noises of polite agreement. Yeah, everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted him to give them something. Everyone except Keith, who never seemed to want anything from him beyond what Shiro had already committed to doing on his own. Keith, who didn’t lay any expectations on Shiro. Keith... He missed Keith.

“... and whoever that Ko-gain guy is.”

The sound of Keith’s last name drew Shiro’s attention back to the other cadets, and he automatically corrected, “It’s Ko-ga-nay.”

Kelsey giggled. The sound sent goosebumps down his arms. “Is he Japanese like you?”

“I haven’t asked.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Well, does he _look_ Japanese?”

“I – what?” Shiro’s brain ground to a halt, then slowly sputtered back to life. His head felt like it was floating in a pool. “Does it matter?”

“Come on man, we gotta know if we’re facing an Asian invasion here!” Brian crowed, elbowing Kelsey. “We have to prepare!”

Grinning broadly, Brian pulled the corners of his eyes back and turned to Kelsey, who quickly followed suit. Shiro couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, Shiro-senpai,” Kelsey barked, in a terrible fake Japanese accent, “whatever shall I do to be a better pilot?”

Brian laughed and replied in his own fake accent, his voice intentionally dropped an octave, “Remember, Ko-gaaah-nay, patience yields focus!”

Shiro’s stomach twisted. They almost looked like they had rehearsed this.

Their charade continued, their voices like buzzing wasps inside Shiro’s ears. Did he still have an accent? He was pretty sure he’d trained it away after his first year at the Garrison, even if it would sometimes come out again after he called his family.

A few cadets at neighboring tables turned to watch the spectacle, most with furrowed brows and frowns on their faces. Carlos had the same expression – but he was looking straight at Shiro instead, studying his reaction.

Shiro swallowed hard and schooled his face into something neutral.

Right. This was normal. Students in American schools teased and mocked their top-ranked classmates rather than treating them with quiet respect like he was used to at the schools he went to back home. It was just a cultural difference, and he had to adjust. He had to set the good example of letting comments roll off of him like water off a duck’s back.

But he didn’t want to stay here any longer.

“I have to see Commander Iverson about something,” he choked out, all but shoving his chair back with how quickly he stood, and making a beeline for the exit.

The watching cadets began to speak amongst themselves. Above them all, Brian’s voice carried after him: “It’s not my fault he doesn’t have a sense of humor! He really needs to lighten up!”

Shiro wasn’t sure how his feet took him through the hallways and to the bathrooms, but he somehow ended up staring at his reflection in the mirror over the line of sinks. He looked awful, eyes wide and glassy, skin splotchy, hair a mess. Had he been pulling at it on the way?

He ducked his head and splashed cold water on his face, raking his fingers through his hair, glad for once that the automatic faucets never got any hotter than lukewarm.

His hands gripped the edge of the counter. Why was he trembling?

With a growl, Shiro tore away from the sinks, shaking out his arms until they stopped shivering. He finger-combed his hair into something approaching tameness, ran his palms down his cheeks, and sighed so hard his sternum popped.

He missed Keith. He missed having a friend here.

But moping wouldn’t do something about it now, and with some bitter amusement, Shiro decided he was going to see Iverson after all.

Twenty minutes later, Iverson stared at him across the desk in his office, an unreadable yet calculating look on his face.

“Keith asked about you, too.”

******

The loneliness had crept in so quietly that Keith almost didn’t recognize it.

He’d been alone, before. He’d been alone for years, actually, and he had been used to it. Or, if not used to it, at least so distracted by just trying to survive that he never gave it much thought. Going it alone was easier, safer.

Waking up alone in Iverson’s house the Tuesday after he passed all his work was surreal. He had tried to entertain himself, but it was difficult without assignments to study, without knowing how to work the fancy television, without any possibility of going to the Garrison to see Shiro.

Shiro.

He’d never expected Shiro to actually reach out to him after Iverson passed along his phone number, or to actually say he enjoyed spending time with him, or to want to continue doing so.

But Shiro did, on all counts, and so Keith found himself at the Garrison once more. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, reading over Shiro’s last message for the hundredth time.

_Great! Can’t wait to see you._

Keith tucked the phone away and leaned against the wall by the front doors of the Garrison’s main building – whatever it was actually called – with his arms crossed, waiting for Shiro. The afternoon sun beat down on the glass doors, and the heat from them radiated through the entry hall.

Shiro had told him to dress in casual but durable clothing, for whatever reason, and so Keith was in his toughest jeans and his black denim jacket, and baking inside them. The approaching summer seemed much hotter in Arizona than he remembered from the streets of California.

He perked up at the sound of footsteps.

Then his mouth went dry.

He’d recognized, from the first moment they’d met, that Shiro was a good-looking guy. But it seemed that Keith had filtered that through the caveat of the hideous cadet uniforms. No one could look truly great in those.

Seeing Shiro walking towards him now in a leather moto jacket and fitted brown pants, two helmets in his arms, opened up a whole new category of attraction like Keith had never felt before.

The few other cadets milling around seemed to notice it, too, judging by their lingering looks on Shiro as he passed.

And their curious glances at Keith, as Shiro lit up with a gorgeous smile, directed right at him.

“Keith! How’ve you been?”

His face was probably bright red. He stared at the floor. “Bored.”

Shiro chuckled. “Well, you won’t be bored much longer. Come on, garage is this way.”

Huh. Iverson had never parked in the garage.

Shiro led the way out the doors and over to a smaller building to the north of the main complex. At least outside, there was a breeze to take the edge off the heat.

“I thought we could check out the desert, then go into town for food. I’ve got off-campus privileges until midnight,” Shiro explained, holding a thick metal door open for Keith. “I think it’s on the third level. Elevator should be over here.”

He found whatever he was looking for fairly quickly: a bright blue hoverbike.

Keith gaped. “Is that yours?”

“I wish it was,” Shiro laughed, with a note of longing in his voice. “It’s Montgomery’s. She’s letting me borrow it. She will absolutely murder us if we put a scratch on it, and even Iverson won’t be able to save you.”

He handed Keith the smaller of the two helmets in his hands and helped him tighten the chin strap, then set about securing his own. Keith ran his fingertips over the tail while he waited, relishing the feeling of the cool metal against his skin.

“Alright, hop on.” Shiro swung a long leg over the body of the hoverbike and turned to smile. “And hold tight.”

Keith gingerly settled in behind Shiro, careful not to scuff the paint with his boots, and gripped the edge of Shiro’s jacket.

With an amused huff, Shiro pulled Keith’s hands free and wrapped them around his waist. “Hold me, not my coat.”

The hoverbike let out a low purr, lifting from the floor and tilting forward. Keith yelped and gripped Shiro tighter.

“There you go. Keep holding like that, and tilt with the bike on turns. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Keith squeaked.

He’d never been on a hoverbike before. He’d never been on anything other than public transit or the passenger seats of customers’ cars.

No. He buried his face in Shiro’s back – or at least, he tried to. The helmet bumped Shiro’s neck before he actually could. He didn’t want to think about the sorry excuse of a life he had in California anymore. The warm, earthy scent of Shiro’s skin grounded him.

“You alright there, Keith?”

“I’m fine,” he said, backing off of Shiro. He settled his feet on the pegs and shifted around to a more comfortable seating position.

Shiro eased the hoverbike out of its spot, and flew it down a ramp, around a corner, and down another ramp to a corrugated metal door, which slowly lifted for them to exit. The sun was blinding compared to the inside of the garage, and Keith winced for a moment before his eyes adjusted.

They cruised along to the gate, where Shiro scanned his ID and Keith turned in his visitor pass. Then they were out on the open road, pavement ahead of them and wild desert on either side.

“Want to see what this thing can do?” Shiro asked. Keith could only cling tighter and nod his head against Shiro’s spine.

The engines on either wing spooled up from a purr to a scream, and Shiro whipped the hoverbike around to the beaten dirt path, shooting off like a rocket and kicking up clouds of dust as they went.

All the skill Shiro had shown in the simulator was nothing compared to feeling him actually fly something real. He sped out into the desert, making his own roads and steadily climbing towards the top of the cliffs, and all Keith could do was hang on tight.

Soon the flat patch of desert claimed by the Garrison gave way to rough cliffs and the ghosts of a mountain range. Rocks whizzed past them as Shiro tore up the tallest cliff – and launched right off of it, cutting the engines in midair.

“Shiro!” Keith yelped.

“Hang on!” he shouted in reply.

Without the sound of the hoverbike’s engines, the landscape below them was a silent, serene expanse, bathed in golden afternoon light and cool shadows. Keith’s jacket fluttered in the wind as they descended, and he leaned a little closer to Shiro.

“Brace yourself,” Shiro warned.

He cranked on the handlebars and the turbines roared back to life just above the ground. With a keening whine, the hoverbike tipped forward, skimming over the gravelly ravine so quickly the ground became a blur.

The rest of their ride – flight? – passed much more tamely. They cruised along a river bank, across what might have once been the bottom of a lake, and through a series of rugged rock spires. Eventually, Shiro parked the hoverbike at the edge of another cliff.

Keith sat on the precipice, feet dangling over at least a forty foot drop. He could just jump now. Push off from the side and slide down and see how it felt to fall, to be crushed, to...

He scrambled back, heart racing and stomach churning. Shiro gave him a look.

“The call of the void,” Shiro said, with a weary sigh. He turned forward and stared down. “Hedrick says you’ll have to face this every time you get in the pilot seat. The... the knowledge that you could just fly straight into the ground and no one is there to stop you but yourself. Some days I think the only thing that keeps me going back to the Garrison is imagining the look on Montgomery’s face if she found me out here.”

He looked so lost, so hopeless, that Keith couldn’t help but scoot closer and rest his hand on Shiro’s shoulder. They were friends, right? Or, something kind of like friends. He wasn’t overstepping, was he?

Just as he was about to apologize and withdraw his hand, Shiro’s reached up to hold it in place.

After a few minutes of quietly sitting together, Shiro let out a long breath and rose to his feet.

“Come on, let’s get food,” he said, holding out his hand for Keith. “There’s a good ramen place in town.”

Keith had no idea where they even were; the fact that Shiro could navigate from the middle of nowhere to the center of town impressed him far beyond what it probably should.

They parked along the curb, a block away from the Greek cafe. A smaller storefront greeted them, and Shiro led the way with a broad grin.

«Konbanwa!» he called out as they entered the restaurant, bowing to the host who greeted them. She looked Japanese as well, approaching her late thirties.

«Shirogane-san,» she said, bowing, «who is your friend?»

Her face absolutely lit up when Keith introduced himself in Japanese, and Shiro just smiled softly.

«Your Japanese is very good, Kogane-san,» she said, waving him and Shiro along to a table and placing a menu in front of Keith. «Your usual, Shirogane-san?»

«Yes, thank you,» Shiro answered. He turned back to Keith and slumped. “I come here when I’m homesick.”

Keith frowned at the menu, then at Shiro. “Japanese was my first language, too. You don’t have to force yourself to use English.”

Shiro spoke English fluently, and with enough of a neutral accent that he’d probably spoken it for most of his life, but Keith squirmed a little at the way Shiro automatically used English in front of him.

“I mean, I’m not very good, anymore,” he continued, “but I can still understand most of it.”

«Thank you, Keith,» Shiro replied.

The waitress returned and Keith ordered the tonkatsu ramen, coincidentally the same as Shiro’s usual order. They slurped at their soup in companionable... well, silence wasn’t the right word, but it was hard to talk around a mouthful of noodles. They still tried, though, until Shiro laughed at Keith’s butchered Japanese hard enough to choke on his food.

This was nice. Keith couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so comfortable spending time with someone.

«Ryou is my younger brother,» Shiro suddenly said. «He’s a couple years younger than you, and the smartest kid I know. We go out for ramen at least twice a week when I’m home.»

Keith dragged his spoon around the bottom of the empty soup bowl, watching the lingering remnants of broth swirl around it. «When do you go home again?»

Shiro sighed. «I’ll be home for three weeks after classes are done for the summer, but then I’m right back here for flight training. I almost wish I hadn’t asked about it, just so I could be home all summer and see Ryou more.»

Keith had nothing to say to that. He’d never had a sibling, or anyone who felt like a sibling in his foster homes. He’d never been that close to anyone, and he doubted anyone would feel that way about him.

Except, maybe, Shiro would some day in the future.

They got separate checks; Keith paid with the card Iverson had given him the previous night. It was some kind of prepaid thing, to cover dinner, because apparently that’s what Iverson thought foster parents were supposed to do. Give their foster kids spending money. Give them a key to the house, like the one on a blue carabiner clipped to Keith’s belt loop.

The sun was close to setting by the time they left, and Shiro turned his helmet over in his hands. “We should do this more often,” he nearly whispered, back to English again and looking a little shy. “I haven’t had such a good time in years here.”

“Yeah,” Keith replied, trying not to blush and probably failing. “Yeah, we should.”

Shiro shot him an unreadable look.

“I still have four other ramens to try.”

That somehow got a laugh from Shiro. “Then I’ll text you. But I should probably get you home. Iverson gave me your address, so I can drop you off on my way back.” He reached out and gripped Keith’s shoulder. “Thank you, Keith. For... letting me be myself.”

Keith’s heart thudded harder in his chest as Shiro smiled down at him, wind tousling his hair. A smile of his own played at his lips and everything inside him felt warm and fuzzy – then turned to ice as he caught sight of a familiar pickup truck cruising down the road. A pickup truck he hadn’t seen since his last few days in California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, you can find me on tumblr at https://amairawrites.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re... offering me a commission?”

Before Shiro could so much as ask Keith what was wrong, Keith lunged forward and plastered himself against Shiro’s chest. His head barely brushed the bottom of Shiro’s chin. He was trembling, peeking out around Shiro like a cornered animal and trying to hide himself. His breaths came in measured intervals, too measured, and slower than usual.

Shiro stood awkwardly for a moment, before folding his arms around Keith’s shoulders. That seemed to be the right decision, as the frightened boy moved even closer.

What could possibly have scared him so badly? Shiro glanced around; there were only a few cars and trucks driving by, a couple groups of people walking to restaurants, and little to nothing else going on. Thursday evenings in the downtown part of Garrison were always quiet.

Keith still shook in his arms. His breathing was increasingly labored now, too.

Shiro curled around him and squeezed him tighter. “Hey, it’s alright.”

The quiet whimper that left Keith’s throat tore at his heart. He wrapped one arm around Keith’s back and cradled his head with the other. It was what he would have done for Ryou if Ryou had been this upset.

“It’s alright,” he repeated, rubbing Keith’s back.

Keith huffed, coughed, and shook his head – or maybe just squirmed closer. It was hard to tell.

He didn’t move for a solid minute.

Shiro sighed and relaxed his arms, letting them sit limply on Keith rather than actively holding him. This was honestly kind of uncomfortable. Sure, he enjoyed Keith’s company and thought of him as something like a friend, but he barely knew him beyond the academic setting, and certainly didn’t know him well enough to embrace him for this long.

After a few more shaky breaths, Keith unlatched his fingers from Shiro’s jacket and yanked himself back. His face was bloodless, so pale the skin was almost translucent, and his eyes were wide and glassy.

He mumbled something inaudible, looking away from Shiro. Slowly, his cheeks reddened, and his eyebrows pulled back down and pinched together. He flipped up the collar of his jacket and hunched his shoulders.

Shiro brushed a hand over Keith’s shoulder once more. “Keith? What was that about?”

“Can we – can we just go?” Keith’s voice shook and wavered, cracking at the end. He didn’t wait for an answer before grabbing his helmet from the back of the hoverbike. He fumbled it in his hands before managing to pull it over his head. “Please?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Shiro said, securing his own helmet and swinging his leg over the seat.

Keith climbed on behind him. His arms didn’t hold quite as tight, and as Shiro drove him home, he didn’t lean into the turns as eagerly as he had earlier in the afternoon.

The sun hovered just above the horizon as they wound through the side streets, following the hoverbike’s GPS directions to Iverson’s address.

He pulled up slowly. The house wasn’t quite what he’d expected from Commander Iverson. The man had such a powerful presence about him that the quaint, unassuming ranch home looked comically mild. It was plain brick and single-story, a rarity from a former age. Maybe the simplicity was what appealed to Iverson.

Shiro kind of liked it.

As the hoverbike slowed to a stop, Keith leapt from it with enough force to stumble and smack his head against the wing.

“Keith!” Shiro yelped. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m – I’m fine. I’m fine.” His voice wavered and spiked in odd places, and he didn’t sound anything remotely close to fine, but he still had the helmet on so he couldn’t have done too much damage to himself. And he hadn’t dented anything or scratched the paint.

Shiro sighed in relief. He would have hated to upset Montgomery; she was the closest thing to family he had out here. Despite his jokes to Keith about her murdering him, all she would have had to do was turn her disappointed glare on him and he would have melted into a puddle of shame at her feet.

He climbed off the hoverbike’s seat and followed Keith to the front door, cupping his hand over Keith’s before he could put the key in the lock.

Keith’s hand shook.

“You still have the helmet on,” Shiro said.

Keith whipped his head up. His face was red. “Oh.” A moment later, he had unfastened the chin strap and pulled the helmet off, dropping it in Shiro’s hands a little abruptly. “Sorry.”

Keith’s hair stuck out at all angles, and Shiro had to resist the urge to smooth it down. Instead, he stood by patiently, while Keith unlocked the house and opened the front door. Iverson was home by now, too, and shouted something for Keith that Shiro couldn’t quite make out from his position on the front porch.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Keith replied, stepping into the house.

Iverson appeared at his side a moment later, patted him on the shoulder, and leaned on the doorframe. God, it was so weird to see him so casual. They had a quick, mumbled exchange, before Keith waved to Shiro and bolted the rest of the way inside. Iverson raised an eyebrow, then turned to Shiro.

“Had a good time?” he asked.

“Uh – yeah. Yes, sir.” Shiro swallowed hard. He had to tell Iverson. “But something really scared Keith right before I brought him home. I don’t know what, but – keep an eye on him?”

Iverson sighed and twisted around, gazing after Keith and letting out a soft huff. After five years of seeing the man as nothing more than a Commander, Shiro couldn’t help but stare at how different Iverson looked when he was acting like a father.

The well-worn frown lines around his mouth had softened, replaced by new lines, still crisp and young, not deepened with age. And his eyes were so soft, so gentle, as he looked at Keith like the boy meant the entire world.

“Thanks, Shiro. I will. Let me know if he says anything about it to you, too.” And the whole effect faded as he returned to his normal self. “How late’s your off-base pass good?”

“Midnight, sir.”

“Let me see it.” Iverson snatched Shiro’s offered phone and tapped a few things, then confirmed them on his own phone. “You’re good until 0200. I hear the night sky is really something on the other side of the plateau.”

Wait, what? Shiro gaped at his phone and the updated pass it showed. “I – thank you, sir.”

“Be safe, Shirogane.”

They saluted each other and Iverson closed the door.

A weak half-smile tugged at Shiro’s lips but failed to move them. He hadn’t gone stargazing in months.

Without Keith on the back of the hoverbike, Shiro could push it through much tighter turns and higher jumps, and he reached the edge of the plateau in a matter of minutes. The sun rested just below the horizon, leaving only a lingering glow behind the rocks.

Shiro settled in, hands behind his head as he stretched out on the ground. He had always enjoyed looking up at the night sky. The vast openness of space; the thought that there could be others out there; the peaceful silence of it all. Every part of it gave him life.

But tonight it felt empty.

The stars panned slowly overhead as the planet and Shiro rotated under them. A few satellites glinted as they orbited, shooting across the sky like comets.

Shiro rolled onto his side and sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket. No messages. Still an hour before he had to go back. For the first time since enrolling at the Garrison, he wished he had someone to share this with.

He took a picture of the night sky, glad he had invested in a phone that could accurately capture it, and sent it off to Keith.

_Wish you were here._

******

Iverson slumped in his desk chair. His home office was stuffy with disuse, a small film of dust on the shelves lining the wall. He hadn’t been in here for months. Not since before he took in Keith.

He sighed.

Shiro was right.

Whatever had spooked Keith had spooked him severely; the boy had hardly left his room for the two days following their trip around town, and outright refused to leave the house over the weekend. He’d devoured book after book on his tablet, and continued studying for his competency exams – now just a week away – with his usual single-minded focus.

But he seemed dulled now, cagey and timid like his first few weeks here. His hands constantly lost their grip on just about everything, like his fork or laundry or phone. He refused to make eye contact. He barely spoke.

Iverson buried his head in his hands. He had taken this Monday to work from home, intending to spend some time closer to Keith, but he had no idea what to do with the kid. The fifth-year students had begun submitting their proposals for their graduate year projects, though, and all of those would require his approval. Might as well get started on them, if Keith still didn’t want to talk.

The first two were run-of-the-mill communications optimization projects, and those always got the rubber stamp of approval as long as they met all the requirements. An engineer, Lawrence Blakely, had come up with an intriguing idea for a cross-disciplinary study of the effects of ambient shuttle noise on long-term psychological wellbeing of its occupants. But, unfortunately, there was no way for him to actually follow through on it, so Iverson sent the proposal back to the cadet for revision.

The fourth name in his inbox gave him pause.

Takashi Shirogane.

He had expected Shiro to request an exemption, due to his participation in the spaceflight training program as well as his position as a TA – an exemption that Iverson would have granted. Instead, the ambitious young man had put together a proposal for select cross-training between cargo and fighter class pilots to improve the performance of both, using his position as TA to facilitate it. To alter the curriculum for the two classes he’d chosen, he would need the approval of Hedrick and Montgomery as well, but he already had Iverson’s.

Shiro had so much potential, and his proposal only bolstered Iverson’s own plans for the young man.

Hell, there were probably a few books around this old office that could help with the project. He rifled around the shelves and pulled a box out from behind a faded binder, nearly dropping it as he lifted the lid.

Oh.

This box.

Aisling looked bright and full of life in the few photos, and Iverson cradled one in his hands. Blond-brown hair framed her face in gentle waves. Freckles stood out against pale skin.

Under the photos was a small velvet pouch, and Iverson opened it despite knowing he shouldn’t.

The ring. Simple, elegant, understated; at least, that’s what the salesman had said. Aisling had loved it. Iverson would have let her keep it when she walked out on him, but she just left it on his desk at the Garrison with a note.

That note was also in the box. He didn’t dare read it again. He already knew he had fucked up with her, being so busy with building his career that he didn’t take the time to build on their relationship. It made sense that she left. She wanted a family just as much as he did, but she didn’t want it with a man who couldn’t leave work at work.

It was fair.

Iverson dropped the photo and the ring back into the box and snapped it shut, shoving it into the corner of the bookshelf once more. Then he finally found the textbook he wanted, an out-of-date edition with a better section on foundational skills than the current texts had.

Back to evaluating educational proposals, and not mulling over his past romantic one.

He was on his seventh student when Keith poked his head into the office, drew his eyebrows together, and retreated once more.

Was this one of those parenting things people just figured out as they came along? Sam Holt was once again on his way to Mars, so he couldn’t easily contact him about it, and Montgomery was single and childless. He didn’t know who else he could ask.

If Keith had been a cadet, he could have just ordered the details out of him. But he wasn’t, and he had a suspicion that trying to do so would ruin –

The doorbell rang. Quick footsteps echoed through the hall before the door to Keith’s bedroom clicked shut.

Iverson slowly rose to his feet, groaning as both knees popped. He wasn’t a young man anymore.

He stepped through his front door, leaving it cracked open behind him. An official Family Services courier met him on his front step. Iverson hadn’t even known they employed their own couriers, but here she stood, complete with a blue uniform and a branded tablet. It was a rare humid day, and she looked miserable.

“Are you Mitch Iverson? I’ll need to verify with an ID.”

“Of course.” He pulled out his wallet and his phone, showing her both the physical card and the digital ID, which she scanned on her tablet.

She smiled. It looked more weary than anything else. “Great! This is for you,” she said, handing over a manila folder thick with paperwork. “You have been granted temporary custody of Keith Kogane. These are his vital documents, as well as a code to scan for him to download them to a phone or tablet.”

“Temporary?” He frowned at her, then the folder, then her again. “I applied for permanent custody, with intent to adopt.”

“That’s – I don’t know anything about your case, sir, only what I delivered. I’d advise contacting your attorney with any questions.” She brandished her tablet at him. “I’ll need you to sign for that.”

He placed his hand over the screen, holding it until the tablet beeped.

“Have a nice day,” the courier chirped, before she turned on her heel and returned to her car.

Iverson watched it drive up the street and around a corner before he sighed and went back into the house. As he closed the front door, Keith poked his head out of his bedroom.

“Is – what did – um...” Keith stammered. Whatever question he wanted to ask fell apart in a mix of disconnected sounds and red cheeks. Iverson beckoned him over.

“These are yours.” He pulled each item out of the folder. A Non-Availability of Birth Record certificate to replace what would have been a regular birth certificate, a new social security card, an international ID number, and a Minor Child ID card with his name and Iverson’s address.

Keith took them all without a word and studied them with dark eyes.

“You’ll need to keep them somewhere secure,” Iverson said. “I have a safe in my office you can store them in. But keep the ID card in your wallet.” He frowned. “Do you have a wallet?”

“You said you wanted to adopt me,” Keith blurted out. His shoulders had drawn up around his neck like a protective shell, and he looked everywhere except directly at Iverson.

Iverson reached out and ran his hand over Keith’s left shoulder. “I do. But it’s your choice, too.”

Keith’s face crumpled and he began to shake. “Why me?”

A multitude of half-formed reasons swarmed his mind, all revolving around how smart or quiet or simple or anything that Keith was, but none of them counted. All he could understand was that he wanted to have a child his entire life, and now he wanted this child in particular, everyone and everything else be damned.

“I always wanted a family.” He tugged Keith a little closer. “You’re a good kid, Keith.”

“But I’m – I’m _not_ , I’m just a – I’m not.” A tiny sob bubbled out of his throat, and he didn’t resist as Iverson folded his arms around him, pulled him into a hug and held him.

“Take as long as you need to think about it,” Iverson said, resting his head on top of Keith’s. “It doesn’t matter what you were before we met. You’re a good kid, and I care about you.”

After a moment, Keith’s hands rose and curled into Iverson’s shirt. He didn’t nod or shake his head, or say anything. He simply relaxed against Iverson’s chest.

For all the confusion and stress and trouble that parenting seemed to bring, Iverson wouldn’t trade the small moments like this for the world. And he would hang on through every step forward and backward that this strong, fragile boy took.

******

Classes were all on hold for the first week of May, while cadets scurried around to study groups and tutoring and worked on their final projects. Shiro sat in the back of the cargo simulator after breakfast, tablet in hand, as a third-year cadet Hedrick asked him to coach – Brenda? Brianna? Brenna, definitely Brenna – followed the flight paths as he laid them out. She had improved significantly over the past week, probably bumping up her final evaluation’s grade a good ten percent.

She kept the sim balanced and smooth through hairpin turns and a tight roll, up and down and through turbulence. The cargo sim itself was tuned to be intentionally sluggish and heavy, a far cry from the whip-crack responsiveness of the fighter sims. Because of that, cargo pilots on average were consistently better at clean flying than fighter pilots, and Brenna was no exception.

But even with her training and practice, she paled in comparison to Keith’s natural skill.

Shiro sighed and glanced at his phone. Keith hadn’t texted him back since their outing a week ago, and his stomach churned. What had Keith been so afraid of? Was it something Shiro had done? No, no, it couldn’t have been. Keith had used Shiro as a shield against – whatever it was.

“Shiro?”

He whipped his head up, face to face with Brenna, who had twisted around in the pilot seat to stare at him. Her jet on the display was gliding through open air; Shiro hadn’t added any more to her flight path, and had forgotten to set a landing. His stomach twisted, this time with guilt.

“Sorry, I – I’ve been distracted,” he said, tucking the phone away. “Here, I’ll...”

A few taps on his tablet screen later, the flight path reappeared, leading back to the runway.

Brenna touched down without struggle, a definite improvement over last Friday. The lights in the sim rose to normal ambient levels as soon as she taxied back to the starting position.

He checked his phone again. Still no reply.

“Texting your girlfriend?” Brenna asked.

Shiro fumbled the phone, only barely clamping it between two fingers before it could fall to the floor. “No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Is she not your girlfriend yet? Michelle said you had a date last week. Got back late, too?” Her eyes were bright and curious.

Of course Michelle had found out some sliver of truth about him spending time with Keith and told everyone about it. But Brenna looked genuinely interested, like she cared what her tutor’s life was like. Shiro sighed.

“I was out with a friend. It wasn’t a date.”

Though, could Keith be considered a friend? Shiro had to resist the urge to grab his phone and text Keith once more; five unanswered messages should be enough. Before this silence, he wouldn’t have questioned it. But now...

His tablet chimed with a reminder alert, and he looked down, frowning. Fifteen minutes until he had to meet with almost everyone involved with the pilot training programs. They had booked one of the conference rooms rather than a classroom, so it was definitely important. And Brenna was still staring at him.

“And there’s really no girlfriend,” he added, after a moment of confusion.

Brenna perked up. “Well, my friend Lynn is single, and she thinks you’re really cute.”

“Lynn Schumacher?” His eyebrows drew together. He didn’t know anyone else named Lynn. Fortunately, Brenna nodded. “She seems nice, but I’m only into guys.”

“Oh! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, folding her hands over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to assume.”

Shiro smiled and shrugged and waved away her embarrassment. “It’s fine. As for the tutoring, I think you’re good to practice on your own now. You’ve made great progress.”

They both stood, and Brenna insisted on shaking his hand, like he was a real teacher or something.

“Thank you so much for all your help, Shiro. You’ve totally saved my grade.”

He patted her shoulder. “I just gave you some guidance. You did all the work yourself.”

They exited the sims and split up in the hallway. Shiro grabbed his phone once more, then huffed at himself. What was his problem? Why was he so hung up on one person? What was so special about Keith? He ran a hand through his hair, probably thoroughly mussing it, then frantically pawed it back into position.

Right. Keith just was. They clicked, somehow. Being with Keith was the closest he felt to having a potential friend. Spending time with Keith didn’t sap his energy the way everyone else did. Eventually Shiro would figure out the rest.

But for now, he needed to get to his meeting on time.

He arrived at the conference room just a minute early, saluting as he entered, even as his breath caught in his throat. This was the same conference room where Hedrick had encouraged him to be more accepting of Keith.

Commanders Iverson and Montgomery both gestured to a chair, then shot each other unreadable looks, while Lieutenant Hedrick rolled his eyes and Lieutenant Mickelson shrugged. A few other officers Shiro had never met filled out the room, and everyone settled in as Shiro took his seat.

Iverson turned to his left with a long-suffering sigh. “Mickelson, I know you will regardless, so you get the honors.”

“Yes, sir,” Mickelson replied, then grinned at Shiro. “How does ‘Ensign Shirogane’ sound to you?”

Shiro’s brain went offline, only recovering when one of the nameless officers – administrative insignia on their jackets – slid a paper in front of him. He stared down at it, reading the words without comprehending them, then read them again and curling and flexed his fingers. His hands shook.

“You’re... offering me a commission?” He looked up at the assembled crew. Mickelson had his usual grin pasted on his face; he always loved giving good news. Hedrick’s smile was softer, and Iverson simply gave him a neutral stare. That was basically beaming, from him. To Iverson’s right, Montgomery looked near tears, eyebrows drawn together and a proud, wistful half-smile on her face.

“You had to be considered a member of the Garrison proper once you were accepted into the accelerated training program,” Mickelson explained. “We can go over the actual schedule for it later. Or I can send you a proposed timeline. You’re visiting home after finals, right?”

Shiro clasped his hands. “Yes, sir.”

“Right, get me the dates for that,” he murmured, making a note on his tablet.

The officers glanced around. Shiro folded his hands together and tried not to squirm.

Iverson cleared his throat. “Well, Shirogane, any questions?”

He worried at his lower lip for a moment. “I’m – I’m not a graduate.”

“We know,” Hedrick cut in. “As far as the Garrison is concerned, you’ve completed the requirements to earn a commission. The degree is merely a bonus. I’d rather you not drop out, but you technically could.”

“Wow.” His breath left him in one solid gust. “Who approved that?”

“It takes three officers of Commander rank or above to extend any offer of a commission. Take a look,” Iverson said.

Shiro tucked his fingers under the paper and lifted it a few inches. Indeed, there at the bottom, next to three unreadable signatures, were three names: Lauren Montgomery, Mitch Iverson, and Samuel Holt.

He whipped his head up, staring wide-eyed at the two who were present. “You... wow. I can’t believe it.”

That earned him gentle chuckling from the four officers he recognized. But – wait.

“Ensign is an officer rank,” he blurted out. “You’re offering me an officer’s commission?”

Montgomery laughed and elbowed Iverson. “You owe me a beer.”

“I will owe it forever,” he groused under his breath, “because the piss you drink is not beer.”

“And the piss you drink is not coffee.”

Iverson buried his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ. Never mention coffee in my presence again.”

Shiro couldn’t help but smile as Montgomery elbowed Iverson again and he shoved her away. Maybe someday, he’d have a friendship like theirs.

The other officers finally took the moment to introduce themselves with names Shiro instantly forgot. They were here to explain the actual language of the commission and what it meant for Shiro, not that any of it mattered. He was ready to sign it the moment he saw it, details be damned.

And he did, with an old-school fountain pen, and then again with his fingerprints on his tablet.

All the officers stood and saluted him.

“Congratulations, Ensign Shirogane,” Iverson said.

Shiro scrambled to his feet and returned their salute, grinning like a fool as he committed this sight to memory. They snapped their arms to their sides, and he did the same, letting out the laugh that had been building in his chest.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, clapping a hand over his mouth, then running it through his hair. He laughed again. “This is crazy.”

“Nope,” Mickelson barked. “Crazy is how you’ll feel the first time you put on an officer’s uniform. So, in about fifteen minutes.”

Shiro took a step back and stumbled into the chair behind him. “You can’t be serious.”

But they all smiled, all shook his hand, and filed out of the conference room. The administrative types headed back to their own offices, but Iverson and Hedrick and Montgomery remained as Mickelson closed the door behind them.

“We are serious, Shiro,” Montgomery said. Her voice was soft and a little thicker than usual.

“We will frog-march you to the uniform shop if you resist,” Mickelson added. Hedrick laughed and nodded in agreement. Iverson rolled his eyes – probably also in agreement.

Shiro held his breath for a moment. “Okay.”

It wasn’t often that the main team of piloting instructors walked through the Academy together, and definitely not with their star student in tow. Shiro felt eyes on him through every hall and around every corner.

What would they do when he emerged from the shop dressed as an officer?

He nearly gasped at the line of gray uniforms already laid out for him, with single bands of yellow over the shoulders. Seeing the stack of name patches next to them, all reading _T Shirogane_ , suddenly made it a little more real.

“I... I never thought...” he stammered, choking on his words and fighting down tears.

Montgomery’s hand rested on his shoulders. “You’ve earned this, Shiro,” she said, “at least a dozen times over. Go put one on.”

Shiro swallowed hard, and stepped forward with trembling hands. The officer uniforms were thick and soft, heavier than cadet uniforms. He pulled a pair of pants and a jacket from the table and tried not to stumble on his way to the fitting rooms.

It hit him, as he unzipped his cadet jacket, that this might be the last time he ever wore it. The seams had begun to fray around his shoulders, and the sleeves were just a hair too short after his last growth spurt. Same for the legs of the pants; at least tucking them into his boots helped hide that.

Shiro would normally have folded the uniform and set it on the bench with care, but today he couldn’t be bothered. Into a pile it went.

His measurements hadn’t changed since the last time he’d been fitted, and the new pants were perfect. Same for the coat, which fit him like a glove.

It took a few moments for Shiro to steel himself to check his reflection. And when he finally did, he couldn’t breathe.

A bewildered young officer stared back at him.

God, this was really happening.

He let out a shuddering breath and almost gasped as he inhaled. He had to go out to the main floor of the shop so the tailor could mark down any adjustments. He had to stop staring. Just stuff his cadet uniform into his bag, unlatch the door, and head back.

“Looks good, Ensign,” Mickelson said.

A chill ran down Shiro’s spine. Ensign. That was his rank now.

Montgomery actually teared up. “I’m so proud of you, Shiro.” Then Iverson leaned in and whispered something, and her tears vanished as her hand shot out to whack his stomach. She growled, low enough that only Shiro could overhear, “Let me have this, Mitch, and I won’t give you any shit when you’re blubbering like a baby six years from now.”

Iverson scowled. Shiro fought back a grin. Montgomery was probably responsible for fully half of Iverson’s frown lines.

“Okay, let’s check the fit,” the tailor – Rob, as he introduced himself – said, moving Shiro’s arms and having him stand at attention. “Now your salute.” He pulled at the fabric and held a soft tape measure to multiple parts. “Well, looks like I got it right on the first try. Let me get the name on that one there, and you can pick up the rest tomorrow.”

Shiro shrugged out of the jacket and handed it over. Rob’s fingers deftly pulled a needle and thread through the patch and the jacket.

“Not a bad way to end the year, is it?” Hedrick asked.

The grin broke free. “No, it’s not.”

“You should do something to celebrate!” Mickelson added, with his usual enthusiasm. Few people seemed to have as much love for life as he did. “Go out with the girlfriend or something.”

“I don’t – I’m not dating anyone.” His face warmed.

Mickelson pursed his lips. “No? But, last week...”

Right. That. “I was out with a friend. I’m not dating him.”

Iverson snapped a look at him at the oblique mention of Keith. Shiro dropped his eyes; he still had no idea what had scared the kid. After a moment, Iverson’s mouth fell into a frown and he slumped almost imperceptibly.

“Well, then go out with the friend,” Mickelson said, as though stating the obvious solution.

As though Keith hadn’t been ignoring him all week.

“You can take my hoverbike again,” Montgomery added.

That gave Shiro an idea for a way to draw Keith out. “Maybe he’d like to learn to fly it.”

She paled. “Nope. Offer rescinded. Not until he already knows how and I see him in action.”

Shiro scowled.

“Don’t give me that look. I don’t even let this guy take it out,” she said, jabbing her thumb at Mickelson.

Mickelson rolled his eyes. “That’s because I have my own.”

“Yeah, and it’s more dented than not.”

“Fine. Shiro, you can borrow mine as many times as you want. And your friend can fly it, too.”

Before Shiro could ask Mickelson if he was serious, Rob interrupted to hand over the finished jacket. All the officers – the _other_ officers, because now he was an officer, too – waited in silence for him to zip it up and snap it around the neck. He turned to the angled mirrors, and nearly gasped once more.

This... this was real. This wasn’t a dream. He drew his fingers across the name patch and bit his lip. The nervous pit in his stomach twisted – and growled.

“Time for lunch?” Hedrick asked.

Mickelson chuckled. “Make your grand entrance to the rest of the students.”

The idea of spending all his mealtimes in his room had never seemed more appealing, but more threats of frog-marching put an end to that.

Shiro’s skin crawled under his new uniform. This time through the halls, rather than shooting Shiro occasional lingering glances, the cadets in the hallway outright stared at him. At least, after five years of walking to meals, he could completely ignore everything around him and make it there by muscle memory alone.

“We’ll have to show you the officers’ lounge,” Hedrick said, from Shiro’s left. “Since you have access now.”

Mickelson took up a position to Shiro’s right. “Let him get used to this first, Tim.”

Montgomery and Iverson brought up the rear, and Shiro smiled to himself at the weary look on Iverson’s face at whatever Montgomery was saying to him. He turned back to Mickelson.

“You really don’t mind me borrowing your hoverbike?”

Mickelson grinned. “Not at all. I’ll be visiting my sister in Portland for a month after classes let out.”

“Do you still road trip with that terrible pickup truck?” Montgomery asked from behind. Mickelson scowled back at her.

“Road trips are awesome, and my pickup is a classic. Do you always hate on everyone else’s vehicles?”

“Only the shit ones.”

Shiro and Hedrick burst out laughing, as Mickelson fought a smile.

“I walked into that, didn’t I,” he groaned as he gestured for Shiro to enter the cafeteria first. “Guest of honor, go ahead.”

Hedrick elbowed him. “Being an officer means you can roll your eyes at him and he can’t do shit.”

Being an officer.

Shiro’s footsteps stuttered as he realized just how casual all four of them had been around him today, now that he was an officer like them – and, by comparison, how formal they always were with the cadets. Except Mickelson. He was always casual and friendly, regardless of ranks.

How much would Shiro have to adjust, to be an officer while also a student?

The realization came to him with a frown: not very much at all. He... didn’t really have friends here.

Despite that, the classmates he passed cheered and congratulated him, and he spent more time standing and shaking someone’s hand or letting them clap him on the back than he did walking towards the food. Eventually, Montgomery herded the students away, and Hedrick herded Shiro towards the line.

Iverson stepped up next to him. “Doing alright, Shiro?”

He reached for a tray and a plate and sighed. “It’ll be weird for a while.”

“Mhm. And... don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Keith?”

Shiro shook his head. “But... maybe he’ll want to fly Mickelson’s hoverbike.”

Before he could reach for his phone, though, a crash and shouting erupted from the far corner of the cafeteria. All four officers around him perked up and turned towards it like meerkats.

Fights weren’t common at the Garrison Academy, but occasionally tensions would rise between two cadets – usually fighter pilots – and something would cause them to boil over.

“Don’t worry about this while you’re still a student, Shiro,” Iverson said, stomping towards the brawling cadets and bellowing orders over their noise.

Right. He was an officer, but also a student.

How would he ever make it work?

******

Sunlight filtered through the curtains and onto Keith’s skin. Iverson was still at work. Laundry was done, the kitchen was clean, and Keith had studied all the eighth grade material enough that he could probably recite it from memory.

His test was in two days.

Maybe he should just bomb it. He wouldn’t have to keep waiting for Iverson to find out what Keith was and decide he didn’t want a trashy whore as his kid. He wouldn’t have to wait for Shiro to decide he didn’t want to be friends with a homeless prostitute. Better to do it before he got attached.

He’d had his bag packed and ready to go since that day in downtown Garrison. Better to be prepared. He couldn’t run from California while he was here.

No. No, he couldn’t just... give up and throw away all Iverson’s and Shiro’s effort on him. He couldn’t throw away the promise of the Garrison. Not yet.

Keith reached his hand out for the phone on the nightstand and thumbed through the messages Shiro had sent him for what felt like the hundredth time. These, too, he might as well have committed to memory.

_Wish you were here._

_I’m free next Saturday. Want to take another ride through the mountains?_

_The cafeteria served ramen today. Nowhere near as good as what we had._

_There’s a new sim run if you want to try it next time you’re here._

_Hey, are you okay?_

But this time, there was a new one.

_Mickelson said I can borrow his hoverbike, if you want to learn to fly one. Just let me know if you’re interested, okay? And good luck on your exams!_

The last remnants of his plans for escape vanished as his thumbs moved of their own accord.

_Sure, once the exams are over. And thanks._

Keith steeled himself and sent the message.

The front door creaked open, and Keith scrambled off his bed. He didn’t want Iverson thinking he’d spent the day laying around doing nothing.

Quickly padding down the hall, Keith paused in the living room, watching as Iverson hung his uniform jacket over two pegs. He looked weary in a way Keith didn’t recognize, with an anxious twist to his mouth and a deep crease between his eyebrows, and a bruise on his face.

Iverson almost shuffled through the house to the kitchen, grabbing a dark beer from the fridge and popping the cap off, then returning to the living room and dropping onto the couch.

“Saw you cleaned,” he said – almost sighed, really. “Appreciate it.”

He sat in silence for a few moments, alternately clenching his hand around the bottle and holding it to his cheek. Then he patted the seat next to him, and Keith obeyed the wordless command.

“Keith, I’m a hardass to the cadets. I know this. I always have been.” He took a swig of beer and dropped his head back. “I’m sure you can handle it. But I want you to know that how I act as Commander won’t have any bearing on how much I care about you as your foster dad.”

He finally made eye contact, and Keith quickly nodded. Even though he wasn’t really sure what Iverson was getting at.

Iverson’s face softened and he stretched an arm out, pulling Keith into a quick half-hug. It was... actually kind of nice, the hug. Keith felt better in that moment than he had all week.

“Movie?” Keith asked.

“Your choice,” Iverson answered, digging his tablet out of his bag and handing it over.

“And... can I hang out with Shiro again?”

That got more of a reaction. Iverson sat up straight and nearly dropped the beer. “Of course you can. You don’t even need to ask. Just tell me when you’re planning on it.”

Keith nodded again.

“And Keith,” Iverson started, waiting for Keith to acknowledge him before continuing, “You can tell me anything. Whatever’s been bothering you this week. I’m here for you.”

He really couldn’t. But it was a nice thought, so Keith gave him a tiny smile. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For teasers a few days before a chapter is added, and occasional rambling posts about my thought processes, check out my tumblr! https://amairawrites.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where the heart is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't thrilled with season seven of Voltron... except every part where Iverson was awesome.

Keith stared down at the beige particleboard of his assigned desk while an elderly woman explained the rules of the exams. It was all pretty simple: he had his assigned tablet, and the test questions would appear on its screen. He also had a stack of lined paper and several pencils on his desk for working through problems by hand if needed.

Garrison was too small of a town to host one of these test sessions, so Iverson had driven them here in the hazy dawn, two hours from where they lived. Phoenix? Tucson? It was a sprawling city that he’d missed on his mess of hitchhiking and bus rides to Garrison from California. Everyone had stared at them at the check-in desk, too. Iverson had worn his uniform – the guy owned maybe two changes of clothing that weren’t his uniforms – and kept a hand on Keith’s shoulder the entire time.

Like his dad used to.

He didn’t fit in here. The other students here were all from happy, supportive homes. They were homeschooled by choice of their parents, not because they had been homeless drifters only assigned a home by chance. They all wore nice clothes, happily chatted with each other, smiled with confidence.

But the table in Iverson’s office was nicer than this desk, and that was what Keith had been studying on for months, inside what was apparently one of the best schools in the world. Did that count for anything?

The tablets chimed en masse, and Keith ducked his head and got to work.

Math first. One hundred questions, some more involved than others, greeted him. He picked the algebra section first; algebra had always been his strongest subject when he’d studied with Shiro. Those were quick and easy. Actually, all of the questions were quick and easy. Even the geometry proofs.

What the hell was this? Some of the questions Shiro had given him were near impossible, and often took full days of studying to understand.

But, within an hour of the start time, Keith had finished all hundred math questions.

He held his breath and tapped the button to submit his answers. The tablet screen blanked out, then lit up again with another section of the exam, this one centered around science.

Oh. Multiple sub-tests. Maybe the questions started easy and then got harder as the test progressed? This was meant to test three grades’ worth of knowledge; it would follow that he would have three levels of each subject. Keith glanced at the clock and frowned. He only had four more hours to get through all of this. Better not waste time.

The hard sciences were also easy and came with pages of equations and theories and laws for him to reference. Seemed the test was more about applying the correct stuff than memorizing it.

He took a deep breath and huffed it out. The girl at the desk next to him turned and glared.

Whatever. Keith snapped his eyes back to his tablet and plowed through the questions, only reining in his speed enough to make sure he wasn’t making mistakes. The sooner he was done with the easy parts, the sooner he could get to the harder ones, but if he scored too poorly he might not even get the chance.

He finished biology’s thirty questions in as many minutes. Same for chemistry and physics; the last ten questions were all general science, like the scientific method and what made a theory a theory.

Next was history. Like Shiro’s assignments, these were all information and analysis, and as such the section was far shorter but with longer questions. Five even had short essays he had to write.

Keith glanced at the clock and winced. Only two hours to go. Would he be able to finish in time?

He fumbled to submit his answers, missing the button the first few times as his hands began to shake.

Keith clenched his fists and dragged his thumbs across them. He could do this. He had to do this. Shiro had spent so much time helping him. Iverson had so much hope for him. He couldn’t disappoint either of them.

The tablet screen brightened again with the next section, a combination of reading comprehension and writing. Shiro hadn’t gone over that very much with him, but it seemed similar enough to the history section that Keith could manage.

Drawing in another deep breath, Keith selected the first question and read the text twice.

Shiro had given him much more interesting books than whatever this had come from.

The students at the desks around Keith all scribbled on their extra papers. Had they already moved on to the next level of math questions? There was no way he was keeping up with them.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He had to at least do his best, right?

This section only had twenty questions with the same split as history: five essay-type, and fifteen multiple choice. He worked through the latter first, then came back to the essays.

Just like history. Understand and analyze.

Thirty minutes and a sore, stress-bitten lip later, he finished the last essay and pressed submit.

And the tablet stayed dark.

Oh. Oh no. His heart sank into his stomach and down through his abdomen. Had he failed? Had he done so poorly that the test had locked him out of the later grades? What would he tell Iverson? What would –

The elderly woman from the front of the room patted his desk. Keith jerked his head up at her, trying not to flinch and probably failing. Without a word, and only a neutral look, she gathered up his papers and tablet, and motioned for him to stand.

A few of the other desks in the room were empty now, too. Keith stood slowly and gripped his elbows and stared at her graying hair as she led him out of the room.

“You’re all done,” she finally said, once the door was closed behind them. “Remember, you’ll have your scores sent to you by end of day if you chose the electronic option at registration, and by end of the week if you chose the paper option.”

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared back into the test room.

Keith glanced around. The hallway was cold, and he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie to keep from shivering. There was no way he could keep Iverson from being disappointed in him.

He looked to his left. The hallway stretched long and dim ahead of him; Iverson was waiting down by the reception area at the end. Keith could just turn right and disappear. Save Iverson the hassle.

But he found himself turning left and shuffling towards the reception area anyway.

Iverson lifted his eyes from his tablet as Keith approached, and his face twitched, relaxing into as soft a smile as he ever gave. Something warm and comfortable settled into Keith’s chest, right next to the sore twist of nerves.

“Done already?” Iverson stood and stretched his legs. “Let’s get something to eat before we head back.”

Keith nodded. “Like what?”

“Anything you want.” He then stretched his shoulders, pulling his arms over his head for a moment and letting out a grunt as they dropped to his sides.

A few other people in the cheap vinyl chairs shot furtive looks at Keith, and he looked down at the floor and shuffled a little closer to Iverson. He knew he didn’t belong with someone like a Galaxy Garrison Commander.

But Iverson apparently didn’t know, or care, as he draped an arm over Keith’s shoulders and pulled him against his chest.

“I’m proud of you, Keith.”

Keith wrapped his arms around Iverson and hugged him tight.

“We’ve been out of bacon at home for a while now. How about breakfast for dinner?” Iverson suggested.

Keith nodded, and an hour later found himself sitting across from Iverson in a cheap diner, a plate full of bacon and eggs and waffles in front of him.

“Once your scores are in,” Iverson said, between mouthfuls of biscuit, “I’ll submit them with your application to the Garrison Academy.”

“Do you think I’ll get in?”

Iverson set his fork down. “Definitely. You’re a bright kid, but more importantly you’re a hard worker.”

Keith pushed the waffle around his plate, then asked, “What if I don’t?”

“Then you can enroll in the public school and reapply at the end of next school year if you want to. We take transfers. Or you can stay in the public school and pursue something else in college.”

Before Keith could say any more, his tablet and Iverson’s phone chimed in unison.

The test scores were in.

Willing his hands to remain still, Keith pulled his tablet from his backpack and opened the message. Each section had a raw score – which he couldn’t even begin to understand – and a percentile rank of how he did next to others his age.

_History – 92nd percentile_   
_Mathematics – 97th percentile_   
_Reading comprehension – 90th percentile_   
_Science – 95th percentile_   
_Writing composition – 90th percentile_   
_Overall – 94th percentile_

He... he’d done horribly. Worse than almost all the other students his age. He blinked away the heat in his eyes and glanced up at Iverson, who was beaming.

“You did great, Keith.”

He stared down at his plate. “I... I didn’t...”

“No, Keith, you did really well, especially considering where you started back in February.” Iverson reached his hand over the table to cup Keith’s chin, pulling his face up to meet his eyes.

Keith squirmed away, and Iverson let his hand drop.

“When was Shiro going to pick you up again?”

“Thursday, after his classes.”

“The social worker is coming over Thursday afternoon for the interview.”

Keith fumbled the piece of bacon he had grabbed. “For... the permanent custody?”

“Yes.”

Iverson still wanted to keep him. Even though he’d fucked up so badly on the tests. Even though he’d probably never get into the Garrison Academy.

“If you still want to live with me,” Iverson added.

Keith looked up and studied Iverson’s face. Eyebrows drawn together, one eyelid a little droopier than the other, and nothing but warmth.

Iverson wanted to keep him.

And he wanted to stay.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

******

Iverson watched with some amusement as Keith frantically dug through the laundry for his button-down shirt. It had become a source of comfort for him – and he always seemed to want to look his best when he was going to see Shiro.

It was a little concerning that Keith still only had a single friend here, but Iverson couldn’t be happier that the friend was Shiro. He’d seen how isolated Shiro could be, but also how kind and patient. The idea of throwing them together for tutoring had paid off. They would be good for each other.

The doorbell rang just as Keith pulled the shirt from the dryer. He almost whined as he pulled it on and saw that it was wrinkled.

Iverson shook his head and opened the front door. A middle-aged woman with long blond hair greeted him.

“Hi, I’m your social worker with Family Services.” She flashed her ID so quickly that he only caught her last name – Linney. “Mitch Iverson, right?”

“Right. Come on in.” Iverson stepped to the side and gestured into the house.

Keith poked his head out of his bedroom. He had taken the shirt off, and was probably in the middle of smoothing out the wrinkles. As soon as he saw that it hadn’t been Shiro at the door, he disappeared back into his room.

They sat at the kitchen table, and Linney cast an appraising look around the room before she retrieved a tablet from her purse, shaking it to dislodge the bag.

“So, this is a preliminary home visit, to see how Keith is settling in, before we move forward with permanent custody and adoption. For today, I’ll interview you and Keith separately and then take a look at the house itself. I see here that Keith was originally... homeless.”

Iverson suppressed a snarl at how she said the word. “Yes, he was.”

Keith, now fully dressed in a slightly less wrinkled shirt, appeared at the table and fidgeted as he glanced between Iverson and Linney. “Will this take long?”

Linney gave him an odd stare until he curled in on himself, then turned her eyes on Iverson.

“Keith has plans for the evening,” he explained to her. “You should probably interview him first so we don’t intrude.”

“Sure,” she said. She didn’t sound very convinced.

Whatever her issue was, she said nothing as Iverson gave Keith the chair and retreated to his office.

He slumped at his desk and stared at the empty photo frames on top of the bookshelf. Muffled voices filtered through his door, but he couldn’t pick out the words. Keith, as usual, didn’t seem to be saying much.

Iverson reached out and grabbed one of the brushed metal frames that Aisling had given him. She had always preferred the kind that held old-fashioned printed photos over the more common digital ones. This one used to hold a picture of the two of them – he had thrown it out a few years after she had left. Maybe he’d put a photo of himself and Keith in there instead. Fill all the frames with Keith.

If the interviews went well.

A knock on his office door drew him from his thoughts, and Keith cracked the door open and edged his way into the room.

“I don’t really like her,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet. “I don’t think she likes me either. She just keeps asking these – these questions, like she’s – she’s just trying to find things wrong with me.”

Iverson stood and extended an arm. Keith tucked himself under it.

“It’s okay, Keith.”

“She’s not going to take me away, is she? My – the last people I was with – said social workers would take us away.”

“No.” He wrapped his other arm around Keith. “I don’t know what’s next after this, but I won’t let them take you without a fight.”

At that, Keith leaned back and looked up at Iverson’s face, eyes wide and lower lip tucked under his teeth. “Promise?”

“I promise. You wait in here a moment. I’ll straighten this out.”

Keith nodded and curled up in the desk chair. He looked so tiny there.

Iverson straightened his spine and marched out to the kitchen, stopping at Linney’s elbow.

“Would you care to explain to me why Keith is afraid you’ll take him away?” His voice automatically dropped into its commander growl. “Or why he already thinks you don’t like him, after no more than ten minutes of conversation?”

“Oh!” Linney startled and dropped her tablet, scrambling to pick it up from the floor by Iverson’s feet. “Well – he just – he has a bit of an issue with authority. I was trying to work around that. With the questions.”

Iverson rounded the table, leaning over it rather than sitting. “See, we both were under the impression that this meeting was to evaluate this placement for a good fit, rather than to judge a child for being in foster care. Were we mistaken?”

She bristled, eyes widening and nostrils flaring, and her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline; classic signs of someone about to try too hard to convince someone of their point.

“Well, in order to evaluate a good fit, I need to understand what kind of kid he is.”

“He’s a good kid. Bright, hardworking, and shy around new people. Not the kind who needs to be grilled by a stranger.”

That seemed to give her pause. Her face twitched through a few different expressions before she broke eye contact and scrolled through her list on her tablet. “Well, I suppose we can start your interview now.”

Iverson took a seat and folded his hands on the table. “Go ahead.”

“I see here you have no partner or children of your own, and you’ve only ever had emergency custody of... three children in the past.”

“Yes. They were students at the Garrison Academy.”

The rest of the questions were remarkably simple, basic things that she should have found in his file. Maybe the point was to see how he answered them in person.

After about twenty minutes of stilted non-conversation later, Keith padded his way into the kitchen and interrupted them.

“Shiro just texted me to say he’s here now.”

Linney jumped in before Iverson could say anything. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Shiro is none of your business,” Keith grumbled, wearing a closed expression that Iverson hadn’t seen in months.

Iverson stood and placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder, almost smiling as he felt the tension bleed away. Keith took a step back and shuffled a little closer to him.

“Go ahead and have him come inside,” he said.

Keith nodded and fired off a quick text message. Shiro’s knock on the door came soon after.

The excitement on Keith’s face, the sheer joy he seemed to get when seeing his friend, quickly overpowered any surliness triggered by Linney’s presence. Shiro must have changed out of his uniform before heading out, dressed instead in a leather jacket and jeans. He beamed at Keith and handed him a helmet.

“That’s not Montgomery’s bike,” Keith said, peering past Shiro at the hoverbike parked in front of the house.

Shiro laughed. “No, it’s not. Mickelson said I could take his out, and maybe even let you fly it.”

Keith’s mouth dropped open, then lifted in a broad grin. “No way.” He turned to Iverson. “Can I?”

“Absolutely. Go have fun, and be back before curfew.”

The grin grew even wider as Keith pulled on his boots and grabbed his backpack.

“Your hair’s getting a bit long,” Shiro mused, twisting a finger around the end of one curl. “Might need to start tying it back.”

Keith flushed red and tucked his hair behind his ear. “Is... is it okay?”

“Yeah, it’s a good look on you. Shall we go?”

Shiro and Keith both waved their goodbyes to Iverson, closing the door softly behind them as they strolled down the front walk.

“How long have they been together?”

“What?” Iverson turned to the social worker and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, just those two. Is the other boy Keith’s boyfriend?”

“Shiro?” Iverson looked out the front window as Keith secured his helmet and jumped on the back of the hoverbike, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s waist.

Oh. It all made sense now: the fussing over clothing, the flustered expression when Shiro touched his hair, the defensiveness when Linney asked him about Shiro.

Keith had a crush.

“Huh,” he said.

“Is it a problem?” She made some kind of note on her tablet.

At that, Iverson scowled. “Keith and Shiro aren’t dating. But if they were so inclined, I couldn’t think of a better boyfriend for Keith.”

“So you have no problem with him being gay.”

“I have no idea if he’s gay or straight or anything else. I would have no problem with any of it.”

She pursed her lips and made a few more notes. “Okay. Can you show me his room?”

The tour was quick and simple. Keith, already a tidy kid, had spent the previous day dusting and organizing his room, certain that the mystery social worker was going to judge it in some way, and apparently with good reason.

All Iverson had to do was point out the dresser with its multiple changes of clothing, and the attached bathroom stocked with toiletries, and Linney moved on to the next point on her list. They covered house rules, safety precautions, and discipline.

“Discipline?” Iverson asked, caught off-guard by the topic.

“What you do when Keith misbehaves.”

He was at a loss. “I don’t have to do anything. Keith is such a well-behaved kid that it honestly hasn’t come up.”

Linney hummed to herself, a speculative but somehow self-satisfied note. She tapped a few more things on her tablet, then nestled it under her arm.

“Well, that does it for today. You’ll hear from Family Services within the next few weeks.”

Iverson nodded and escorted her to the front door. And if he locked it a little roughly after her, no one else was the wiser.

He fired off a quick email to his attorney summarizing the visit – and the social worker’s possible prejudice against homeless youth.

Now all he had to do was wait.

******

Much to Keith’s relief, Shiro immediately guided them towards the desert, away from the center of town. He still hunched over and curled against Shiro’s back as much as he could, just in case the john from California was still lurking around the area.

This hoverbike wasn’t as nice as Montgomery’s. Some of the paint had flaked off, and there was a huge scrape on the end of the left wing. But he might be able to fly it himself!

He squeezed Shiro a little tighter in his excitement, and felt his face flush as Shiro laughed.

They flew along the Garrison’s border fence this time, following a dirt road that Keith hadn’t noticed before. Their route wove into canyons and through a small natural tunnel that opened at a barren salt flat.

Shiro parked in the middle of it and hopped off. The ground crunched beneath his boots.

“Alright, scoot forward,” he said, guiding Keith’s legs into position. “So, each turbine has its own throttle. Roll them towards you to go faster, roll them away to stop. They’re also how you control turns. Give it more on the left turbine and you turn right, and the opposite to go left.”

Keith’s hands trembled. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Mickelson offered his bike specifically to let you learn.”

Wow. Keith would have to thank this Mickelson guy some day.

Shiro then climbed on the hoverbike and settled in behind Keith, steadying himself on the wing before reaching his hands forward to the handlebars. His chest was completely flush with Keith’s back, and Keith stiffened at the sudden contact.

He sucked in a breath and held it. It was just Shiro. Not a mugger. Shiro was... Shiro was safe.

Keith exhaled hard. Shiro was safe.

“Ready?” Shiro asked.

Keith nodded, and twisted the throttles back. The hoverbike lurched forward and he flinched, pulling a little too hard on the handlebars. The turbines keened in protest. This was nothing like the flight simulator.

Shiro’s hands clenched and steadied the bike. “A little slower this time.”

They practiced like that for at least a half hour, guiding the hoverbike through fitful starts and shaky turns. Shiro encouraged him the entire way, offering advice and adjustments with no judgment. After the fourth perfectly executed figure-eight, Shiro stopped the bike.

“You can go faster now,” Shiro teased, before he let go of the handlebars and wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist and clacking their helmets together. “Lead the way, but don’t try any jumps yet.”

Keith peeled his fingers off the throttles and curled his hands against his thighs. The hoverbike floated in place, purring at idle. “What if I get us lost?”

“You won’t. I know this whole area.” Shiro shifted his arms into something like a hug. “And I trust you.”

He swallowed hard. “Okay.”

Despite Shiro’s assurance that he could push it, Keith kept the hoverbike at a reasonable speed. What could have been an adrenaline rush instead turned into a leisurely climb through the jagged foothills.

This was just as good as going fast, though. Shiro relaxed against him, resting his chin on Keith’s shoulder. The wind whipped at their jackets enough to ease the evening heat, but not so hard it stung.

Keith parked at the top of a cliff, in a good spot to watch the sunset.

“I brought food,” Shiro said, swinging his leg off the hoverbike and popping open the trunk. He handed Keith his backpack, then grabbed two matching boxes wrapped in cloth. “It’s mostly fruit, since it’s so hot outside.”

They both shrugged off their jackets and draped them over the hoverbike’s wing, and set their helmets on the seat. Keith struggled with the knot on his box, eventually giving up and letting Shiro untie it for him. At least the lid came off easily.

He stared into the box. He recognized the strawberries, but nothing else.

“Uh... what’s this?” he asked, holding up an odd orange cube. It was firm and slightly slippery, taking far too much effort to keep still in his chopsticks.

Shiro grinned. “That’s cantaloupe, my favorite.” He leaned over and pointed out each item. “There’s more of it there. And that’s watermelon, and strawberries, and sliced apricot, and sliced cucumber. There should be a bunch of cherries under the top tray.”

The fruit was still cool, and for a moment all was quiet as they ate. This was nice. Maybe Iverson would let Keith get a hoverbike. How much did they cost, anyway? He could get a job or something to pay for it.

Not like he would have to pay tuition or whatever for the Garrison Academy if he couldn’t even get in.

“How’d your exams go last week?”

Keith winced. There it was. He clenched the fruit box. “I... I passed.”

Shiro smiled. “That’s good! You can apply for the Garrison now.”

“There’s... I can’t... I didn’t do well enough for that.”

He kept his eyes on his hands, on the way his jeans rode up his ankles, on the mix of red and brown in the rocks beneath them. Anything to avoid the look of disappointment on Shiro’s face. But Shiro just set his food aside and placed his hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“Can I take a look at the results? We can see where you need to improve for next year.”

Keith twisted around at that. Shiro had a strange smile on his face, with his eyebrows drawn together and eyes half-closed. He looked – well, a little disappointed, but mostly accepting and maybe a little hopeful.

Unable to form any protest, Keith grabbed his tablet from his backpack and pulled up the test results, all but shoving them at Shiro’s stomach.

Shiro was silent for a long minute, with only the soft taps of his fingers on the screen to give any indication that he was still there.

“Keith...” he sighed, voice soft.

Keith bristled. “Don’t. I know I messed up. I’m sorry I wasted your time with the tutoring.”

“No, Keith. You did really well.”

Shiro’s voice was still soft, and so gentle that it made Keith’s eyes burn.

“No. I didn’t. I know I didn’t, Shiro.” He sniffled, and Shiro wrapped an arm around him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Keith, listen. You won’t even need to take the entrance exams.”

He hunched his shoulders. “Right.”

“No, I mean – anyone in the 90th percentile or better is exempt from them. You’re 94th. You did better than most of the students who apply.”

But... that... Keith twisted in Shiro’s grasp to look up at his face. The heavy glow of the sunset lit his skin like a golden statue, and he smiled.

“You mean... 94th is good?” Keith reached for his tablet, frowning at the screen. It gave him no new answers.

Shiro tightened his embrace. “Being in the 94th percentile means you did better than 94 percent of the people who took the test. It’s really good, Keith.”

“Not... not worse than 94 percent?” The words bubbled up out of him on a disbelieving giggle.

Shiro began to laugh as well. “Not worse. You’re brilliant, Keith.”

Now that the dam had broken, Keith couldn’t stop, even as tears gathered in his eyes. “I just – I thought – Fuck.”

They leaned against each other and laughed and laughed, dancing on the edge of hysterics. Keith didn’t care, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s chest and knocking half his fruit out of his box in the process.

“Does this mean I’ll see you in classes next year?” Shiro asked.

Keith grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll apply.”

Shiro squeezed tight and rested his chin on Keith’s head. “I’m glad. It’ll be nice to have a real friend here.”

Keith nodded. “Yeah, it will.”

******

Shiro dragged his fingers along the bare walls of his dorm – or rather, his former dorm. His few personal possessions sat in three boxes next to the door. His uniforms had already been moved to the new apartment, and all that was left to do was pack his clothes and gifts for family before his flight.

Which was why, with four hours until takeoff, his suitcase still sat on the mattress, only halfway packed.

Shiro yawned. Ryou had been excitedly texting him nonstop since this time yesterday, and, well, waking up every hour on the hour would leave anyone sluggish.

He yawned again and shook his head. At least he had one small side benefit of studying – and now working – at the Galaxy Garrison: the air base attached to the Garrison had constant flights to and from major international airports, so he wouldn’t have to take a bus to get to Luke Air Base. Because he would definitely fall asleep on one and miss his stop.

But in just under twelve hours, he would be back in Sapporo, in his childhood home. It would be so nice to see his brother, and his parents and grandparents. Ryou had already texted him a full itinerary for the three weeks he’d be home; they likely wouldn’t get to all of those plans, but Shiro knew his little brother would do his best to make the most of them.

Shiro placed another shirt in the suitcase on his bed, then let his gaze drift, unfocused, to one corner of the room. Without the posters on the wall and the neat line of slippers by the door, this could have been anyone’s dorm. How strange that it took so little to make a home feel foreign.

“A bit surreal, isn’t it?”

Hedrick leaned against the frame of the open doorway, arms casually crossed. A frail smile flitted across Shiro’s mouth, vanishing as quickly as it came.

“Yeah, it is,” he said. He grabbed another shirt, wrung it in his hands, then folded it and set it in the suitcase.

Hedrick stepped into the room and sat at the desk chair. “It took me three months to stop automatically walking back to my cadet dorm after I graduated.”

Shiro sat on the bed, then flopped onto his back. “It shouldn’t bother me so much, though. It’s not like I ever felt at home here.” He curled his head up to look Hedrick in the eyes. “I always felt more at home with you and the other instructors.”

“Well, that will be literally true in three weeks.”

The laugh broke from Shiro’s throat before he could stifle it. His eyes slipped shut, and he almost dozed off right there. Could eyelids feel tired? Because his did.

His phone chimed with a new message from Ryou – this one demanding they get ramen immediately after Shiro’s flight landed. He’d already made that demand twice, now. He was probably just as sleep-deprived and loopy. Shiro rolled his eyes and tucked his phone in his pocket.

Hedrick grinned and rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Come on, I’ll help you get the last of your stuff moved over. When does your flight leave?”

“1815.”

“Oh. Dropping you off at Luke?”

Shiro gripped Hedrick’s hand and pulled himself up. “Yeah, why?”

“I’m flying that one. Taking the new prototype cargo jet up to Comox for their mechanics to train on. You can sit in the cockpit with me.”

Shiro smiled and nodded. “That sounds great.”

Lieutenant Hedrick was the versatile kind of pilot who had mastered both fighter jets and cargo jets, an essential skill for anyone aspiring to fly through space. He had been up there once before, to the Mars Research Base and back, when he was in his late twenties and Shiro was in his first year at the Garrison Academy.

And on his return to Earth, Hedrick had taken one look at Shiro and promptly taken him under his wing. He spent months teaching him all the skills he would need to go to space himself, and in the process he had eased some of Shiro’s homesickness.

Hedrick grabbed the boxes and Shiro grabbed his suitcase, shoving the rest of his clothes into it. Their footsteps echoed off the walls and around corners as they ambled through the hallways to the officers’ wing. Most of the cadets had already left for the summer. Shiro was usually gone by now, too, always so eager to visit his family that he would leave on the earliest possible flight.

He’d never seen these halls so empty.

They reached Shiro’s room and he tapped his ID against the lock to let them in.

His new room seemed more like an apartment; it was easily three times the size of the cadet singles, with a central room, a bedroom, and a spacious bathroom opposite the kitchen. The walls were bare, painted in the usual sterile gray of the rest of the Garrison. Only the bed, nightstand, couch, and kitchen table had been furnished. He’d have to supply anything else on his own.

And it was too cold, too.

“Who all has access to my room?” Shiro asked, then yawned. The cadet rooms would let any officers in, but he was no longer a cadet.

Hedrick set the boxes in the entryway – because the apartment had an actual entryway – and leaned against the wall as he pulled off his boots. Shiro smiled; Hedrick had remembered his preference for shoes off after the very first time he entered Shiro’s cadet dorm.

“The only other people with automatic access are security personnel and Admiral Sanda,” Hedrick said. “I think Iverson, too, if you’re an instructor. But you can authorize anyone you want.”

“Even if they’re a cadet?”

“Sure. Got someone in mind?”

“Keith is applying to start this fall.” Shiro’s hand drifted to his pocket. He’d taken a photo of the two of them at the top of the cliff and set it as the background on his phone, replacing the old one of him and Ryou making funny faces. Seeing Keith smiling so shyly at the camera still cheered him every time.

He showed the picture to Hedrick, who grinned and patted him on the back. “Look at you, following my advice and getting a friend out of the deal.”

Shiro blinked, then shook his head. He had completely forgotten that Hedrick had to urge him to be friendly to Keith in the first place; now he got along so well with Keith that it felt like he always had.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, more to himself than to Hedrick.

The center of the main room became their staging area as they unpacked the boxes. The charging dock for Shiro’s phone went on the nightstand, while the smaller charging cord went into his suitcase. The clothes he wasn’t taking with him got shoved into the closet, behind his uniforms, to organize when he got back. He left the mess of little things he’d accumulated over his years as a student on the couch. Hedrick stacked the books on the kitchen table.

“Where does the last box go?” Hedrick asked.

Shiro glanced over. “Bedroom for that.”

The last box held all the things he’d brought from Japan. A framed photo of his grandparents; a maneki-neko figurine from Ryou. Shiro set those on his nightstand and laid everything else out on the bed.

They didn’t help. This apartment still didn’t feel like his space, and he didn’t know when, or if, it would.

“Everything alright, Shiro?”

He looked back at Hedrick, then the line of trinkets from his family, and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Hedrick started, before his phone chirped and interrupted him. He pulled it from his pocket and sighed. “Time to start the preflight checks,” he said, shooting Shiro an apologetic smile.

Shiro scooped the little gifts for his family into his suitcase. “It’s fine. I’m ready to go.”

“Not quite yet.” He pulled a little velvet pouch from his other pocket and handed it over. “For your little brother.”

“I... what?”

He dug his fingers into the pouch, pulling out a tiny model IGF Harpy fighter jet. Shiro would be flying the real thing a month from now, and Ryou would be thrilled to have the little figurine.

He nestled it back in its bag, and gently placed it in the middle of his suitcase.

“Thank you,” he whispered, smiling up at Hedrick.

Hedrick patted his shoulder. “So who’s taking you the rest of the way?”

“The Kōkū Jieitai has two long-range jets at Luke for upgrades, and one of them is heading back to Chitose.”

“Close to home?”

Shiro smiled and yawned, then heaved his suitcase over his shoulder as they left the apartment. “Practically Sapporo’s backyard.”

“Bet you’re excited to go home.”

“Yeah, I...” he mumbled, then trailed off. The smile faded from his face.

He wasn’t really that excited.

He didn’t feel like he was going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to JoulesIsIronic, for buying me a coffee. <3
> 
> Follow me on tumblr for sneak peaks of new chapters a day or two before I post them, and for occasional posts on the writing process in general: https://amairawrites.tumblr.com/


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether you're in Japan or Arizona, family is never easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with previous chapters, Japanese dialogue is in the carrot quotes. «»

Shiro rolled the chopsticks between his thumb and forefinger.

It did feel nice, coming home to the familiar beige paneled walls and neat line of shoes by the entryway. There was something comforting about hearing only his first language around him. And he had definitely grinned when Ryou nearly tackled him with a hug when he walked in the front door – but it also rankled him that his parents had refused to bring Ryou along to the airport.

And dinner just smelled right. The grilled fish was delicious, as were the pickled vegetables and the rice. The food provided by the Garrison didn’t compare – not that anyone could expect a city in the middle of the desert to have fish as fresh as a city on an island.

He wiggled his crossed legs, but the restlessness from a full day of traveling remained. His father had insisted he was a guest of honor this time, rather than just a member of the family visiting home, and all but shoved him into that seat.

With the layout of the house, it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to figure out that his current seat was the farthest from the door.

He still would have preferred to sit in his normal spot, right in the middle of his family.

«Takashi, we’re so glad you’re home,» his grandfather said.

«It’s good to be home,» Shiro replied, bowing his head.

His father beamed at him. «Why don’t you tell us more about the program you’re in?»

«Of course!» He grinned and launched into an explanation of the goals of the spaceflight program, as well as the live flights in fighters starting in just a few weeks.

Halfway through his description of how the Harpy jets felt in the simulator, Shiro glanced over at Ryou.

He expected Ryou to be more interested, more engaged, since he had said several times that he also wanted to be a pilot. But Ryou simply pouted at the surface of the table, face dark, alone on his side.

Shiro trailed off in the middle of his sentence and cleared his throat. «Ryou-chan? What’s wrong?»

Ryou snapped to attention.

«Ryou,» his mother sighed, «shouldn’t you be more grateful your brother is home?»

«Sorry, oka-san,» he replied, ducking his head and staring at his bowl of rice.

The fish in Shiro’s mouth tasted like ash. He started to defend Ryou, only to be talked over by his father.

«You should apologize to your brother, not your mother.»

A sour taste rose in the back of Shiro’s throat as Ryou did just that.

«Yes, oto-san,» he murmured, bowing his head to their father, and then doing the same to Shiro. «I’m sorry, nii-chan.»

Shiro swallowed hard. «You have nothing to be sorry for, Ryou-chan.»

Ryou nodded, but the words had no effect on their parents or grandfather, now on a roll with... whatever this was.

«He’s not back from America to deal with your ungratefulness,» their father continued.

«I just wanted to sit by him,» Ryou said, letting a bit of a whine seep into his words.

Their mother frowned. «He is the guest of honor tonight.»

«And this guest of honor is capable of speaking for himself,» Shiro said. «I can sit by Ryou the rest of my visit.»

Ryou brightened and sat up straighter, dropping his chopsticks against his plate. «And we can sit together every day at the Garrison Academy?»

«Every day.»

A small, satisfied smile flickered on Ryou’s face.

«That’s two and a half years away, Ryou,» their mother said.

«One and a half!» he insisted. «I told you! I’ll make it in early.»

«Not with your marks in maths and physics,» their father grumbled. «Those are essential. Right, Takashi?»

«My marks are fine!» Ryou protested, face crumpled into a frown. «I’m the best student in the entire year in biology!»

«Biology won’t make you a pilot like your brother.»

Shiro smothered a scowl. «It’s still important for all Garrison students.»

The warm smile on his mother’s face soothed the twist in his stomach. «Of course, Takashi. We didn’t mean it wasn’t. But Ryou won’t be as successful as you are if his marks are merely average.»

«Yes he will. His school is much better than the one I went to. If his marks are average there, then he’s doing just as well as I did.»

The pause that followed was both a relief and a pressure on his chest. His dad shrugged and returned to his fish. His mom made a show of clacking her chopsticks against her rice bowl. Ryou picked at the vegetables on his plate, shooting quick glances at Shiro.

His grandfather stretched his shoulders and grabbed the soy sauce. «Of course, Takashi. You’re very generous with your brother. Ryou was unexpected, and your parents didn’t have enough saved to pay for both his needs and a private school for you at that age.»

And yes, he had known that, but was it really necessary to say it all the time?

Shiro shook his head. He stared down at his plate and knew he couldn’t stomach another bite.

«May I be excused?»

His parents immediately jumped to attention, assuring him that of course he could, he must be so tired, he didn’t need to clean up anything, just go settle in for bed.

The futons had already been laid out, and he was still in a room with Ryou, so that was... something.

Shiro yawned and sprawled over his favorite old blanket, then dragged his hands down his face. If he stretched his leg far enough, he could brush his toe against the messy pile of a duvet on Ryou’s futon.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, expecting the subtle woody scent of the house and maybe the grassy scent the futons always picked up after a day of sunning. And those were there, but they weren’t quite right.

Shiro exhaled hard and sagged. Why was he so drained? He should have been excited to see his parents again. He should have been vibrating with anticipation, unable to sit still. Instead, he just felt weary, like this visit was another task added to his to-do list, something to finish before he could resume the rest of his life.

At least he could pass the days by spending time with Ryou.

But... right now, he only wanted to escape right back to Arizona and ride a hoverbike all over the desert with Keith, tearing up the cliffs and kicking up dust all around them. Bring Ryou with them, and let him have fun. Let him get away from here.

Shiro yawned. Twelve hours on a plane and one strained dinner with family had him beat. His eyelids drooped and he almost drifted off into a nap.

«Nii-chan?»

Shiro lifted his head to stare blearily at Ryou, now finished with the dishes. «Hey, Ryou-chan.»

He had grown so much. He was still a little shorter than Keith, all compact and dense where Keith was willowy and lean. His hair was a short and shaggy mess, almost long enough in front to hide his eyes.

Ryou fidgeted and sat on his own bed. «I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.»

At that, Shiro wiggled up to sitting, and opened his arms for his little brother. Ryou went willingly, squeezing Shiro around the waist and burying his face in Shiro’s chest.

«I missed you, too, Ryou-chan,» Shiro whispered. «I missed you more than anyone else.»

They were quiet a moment, before Ryou pulled back and looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

«You’re an officer now,» he mumbled, flexing and then wringing his fingers.

Shiro wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown. «I am.»

Ryou curled his lips inward. «Mom and Dad said I would be an embarrassment to you at the airport.» He looked up at Shiro with eyes too bright and wet. «Is that because you’re an officer now?»

«No. No, Ryou, not at all.» Shiro scrambled up to his knees and grabbed Ryou’s shoulders. «Never. They were wrong. You’re not an embarrassment. I’ll always be proud to call you my brother.»

When, after several seconds, Ryou still didn’t react, Shiro drew him into another hug.

He didn’t expect Ryou to resist, when usually he soaked up the attention like a dry sponge.

«I can’t.»

«Can’t what?»

«It’s not appropriate to get so many hugs.»

His words might as well have been their dad’s. They probably had been, at some point.

Shiro sat back on his heels. Their parents had always tried to rein in Ryou’s more affectionate impulses, even when harmless and private.

He reached out and held Ryou as tightly as he could. «There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s not common here, but it’s fine in America. And I promise, I’ll...»

A huge yawn hijacked his jaw, stretching it open wide enough to crack and interrupting his words with an odd squeak.

They remained silent for a very long moment.

Then Ryou broke into giggles, muffling them against Shiro’s chest.

«I’m normally asleep by now!» Shiro protested.

Ryou giggled harder. «Of course, nii-chan.»

«You quit that,» he barked, struggling to contain his own laughter and shoving Ryou away with a fake pout on his lips.

Ryou kicked his leg out and nailed Shiro in the stomach. «Never!»

Shiro grinned then, grabbing his pillow and thumping Ryou in the face.

«Hey!»

They quickly descended into chaos, wrestling each other for control of the pillows, and whacking each other with any soft object they could find.

«Takashi?»

Shiro’s head jolted up, straight into the eyes of their mother. He half expected her to grin and start teasing them like she used to when they were younger, amused by their roughhousing. Instead, she sighed and frowned. Maybe she wasn’t so amused after all.

His breathless laughter cleared up instantly. Beneath him, Ryou shrank, captive in the bottom half of his futon. Their mother raised an eyebrow, and Ryou stiffened, dropping his gaze to the floor.

Shiro had inherited his gray eyes from her. Seeing how cold they looked as she studied the room gave him a chill of his own. Did his eyes ever look like that?

«Sorry for being noisy, Oka-san,» Shiro croaked, his voice flat and dull compared to just moments ago.

«Get your rest, Takashi. You’ve had a long day,» she finally said, sliding the door shut as she left their room.

Ryou whined and wiggled out from under Shiro. «I want to get ramen with you tomorrow after class.»

«We’ll get ramen every single day,» Shiro insisted, «and I’ll walk with you to and from school.»

They both relaxed over their beds and sighed. Shiro stretched across his blankets and stared up at the ceiling. He loved his parents and grandfather, and they loved him, but Ryou was the most important to him by far.

«What is the Garrison like?» Ryou asked. «Still lonely?»

Shiro ruffled Ryou’s hair and thought of Keith. «It’s not so bad now. I made a new friend.»

******

Summers in Sapporo were far better than in Arizona. Comfortably cool temperatures, slight humidity, and a gentle breeze – Shiro would never prefer Arizona’s dry, sweltering heat over this.

Keith, though, had seemed born for the heat, for the extremes. Shiro had never seen him so much as sweat or shiver, even if he got goosebumps occasionally.

And maybe there had been something about the bright sun on red dirt that just made Shiro feel warm inside and out.

Shiro leaned against the trunk of a lilac tree across the street from Ryou’s school. The fluffy flowers were just beginning to shed, and he grinned as he shook a couple free from his hair. Classes let out in just a few minutes, and already the air buzzed with the restless energy of young teenagers eager to go home.

A short line of cars rolled past, with a few Japanese hoverbikes sprinkled in the mix, their designs more compact than Montgomery’s American bike.

Would Keith like the smaller ones? They did seem to be more maneuverable than Montgomery’s powerhouse.

He sighed and reached into his pocket for his phone, unlocking it and opening up his conversation with Keith. His thumbs itched to type out a message; they hadn’t talked in almost a week.

But Keith was almost definitely asleep. It was a couple hours past midnight in Arizona, and Shiro was pretty sure Keith didn’t stay up that late.

The doors of the school burst open, followed by a flood of students. It was several minutes before Ryou emerged, flanked on either side by two classmates. He caught sight of Shiro and grinned, bidding a quick farewell to his friends and darting across the street.

«Nii-chan, you came!»

Shiro chuckled and shook his head. «Of course I came. I did say we were getting ramen together every day, right?»

«Yeah, but...» Ryou looked down and shrugged.

«No buts. Where did you want to go first?»

«There’s a new shopping center if you wanted souvenirs for your friend... what was his name again?»

«Kogane Keith.»

Ryou nodded. «And in America, you call him Keith, rather than Kogane-kun?»

«Yep. He speaks a little Japanese, though, so he would probably understand it either way.»

«Oh! That’s awesome!»

It was a short walk, no more than a half mile, but Shiro found himself unusually exhausted. The jet lag was definitely getting to him without the Garrison’s stash of blue-light lamps and melatonin pills. He had woken up at least three times in the early morning hours, before finally passing out again and getting enough sleep to be functional.

At least the bright lights and colors of the shopping center kept him awake, if not energetic.

Ryou seemed thrilled to show Shiro around the place, flitting about with just a hair more enthusiasm than was appropriate in public, dragging Shiro from shop to shop and pointing out the best places to sit and study.

Seemed he spent a lot of time here.

But his grin was blinding, outshining all the lit signs, and Shiro was nothing if not a sucker for indulging his little brother.

«So, what store has the best souvenirs here?» he asked.

Ryou furrowed his eyebrows and glanced around, even though they were in a somewhat isolated hallway. «Well, there’s not really a souvenir shop here. I mean, there’s the grocery store, so you could get candy, and there’s the bookstore if Keith can read Japanese.»

Given the sorry state of his education when Shiro first met him, Keith probably couldn’t. «What else?»

«Uh... a clothing store? Doesn’t have much, just like... jackets and hats. And a toy store, but it’s mostly kawaii stuff.»

«I guess we can look around.»

In the grocery store, they found an entire display of Kasugai gummy candies, and spent an embarrassing amount of time debating which flavors would make the best gift.

They settled on one of every mini-pack.

The bookstore had some success as well, with an introduction to Japanese writing for small children. Maybe it was a little simple for Keith, but there wasn’t anything for adults who could speak Japanese but not read.

Ryou side-eyed Shiro. «This is a lot more than a simple souvenir for a friend.»

«Keith is more than just a simple friend.»

As soon as the words left his mouth, Ryou grinned like a tiger, and Shiro winced.

«Do you liiike him?»

«Not like that, Ryou.»

«Is he your booooyfriend?»

«He’s not – I don’t even know if he’s gay.»

«Do you waaant to?»

Shiro buried his face in his hand and groaned. «No, Ryou-chan, he – Keith is my _only_ friend at the Galaxy Garrison.»

«Oh.» Ryou’s smile drooped. «Not just your best friend there?»

He was friendly with the other instructors, but it wasn’t the same. He was on decent terms with his spaceflight sim team, but they never really talked outside of classes. And no one would ever beat Ryou as his best friend, even if they were seven years apart in age.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. «He can be both things.»

Ryou pouted. «Yeah, but... who wouldn’t want to be your friend? You’re the best in your class.»

«Most people would rather be top of the class, rather than friends with someone at the top.»

That got a thoughtful look from Ryou, who spent the next few moments staring at the floor and worrying his lower lip before nodding and shrugging.

«And no one will ever be a better best friend than you, Ryou-chan,» Shiro drawled, pulling Ryou in close and ruffling his hair. «So, where to for ramen? Is there a ramen place in here?»

Ryou fought but eventually succumbed to the grin pulling at his lips. «Yeah, there’s Yutakana Ramen. It’s really good.»

Shiro nodded. He followed Ryou’s lead and yawned as they entered the restaurant, then coughed as Ryou frowned at him.

«Nii-chan, are you really okay?»

«It’s just jet lag, Ryou-chan. I’m fine. Oh, I want to look at what the clothing store has before we leave, too.»

Ryou’s eyebrows scrunched together, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to be shouted over by the chef.

«Ah! Shirogane-san! You brought a friend today?»

Shiro and Ryou both snapped to attention at the name, and Ryou bowed. «Good afternoon, Chiba-san. This is my brother, Shirogane Takashi.»

They sorted out their introductions with a little bit of small talk as Chiba-san prepared two bowls of ramen. Shiro didn’t even remember ordering, but Ryou didn’t seem worried, so he wasn’t too concerned either. Hell, his brother seemed like a regular here, and Chiba-san was probably making his usual order.

«I’m an officer at the Galaxy Garrison in America,» Shiro said, when Chiba-san asked him what he did for a living. He smiled softly at Ryou. «I’m looking forward to seeing Ryou there in a couple years.»

Ryou stiffened, and Chiba-san cast him a curious glance. «Is that so?»

Shiro twisted his head around, only barely catching Ryou’s face before he turned away.

«Yeah,» Ryou croaked.

The air grew thick for a moment, then warm and heavy with the scent of freshly ladled ramen broth.

A conversation for another time, perhaps. Shiro patted Ryou’s shoulder and slid into a stool.

The restaurant was homey, warm and welcoming, with only a few tables and four stools lined up by the bar. The counter was a plain gray tile with speckles of white in it, cool under Shiro’s hands and distracting enough from the heat of the room to keep him from nodding off.

Chiba-san placed two bowls in front of them with a flourish and a bow.

«This smells delicious, Chiba-san,» Shiro said, perhaps a little blunt in changing the subject, but effective all the same. Ryou’s eyes flitted back and forth before he relaxed and took the seat to Shiro’s left.

The soup was phenomenal. Of course, competition from other local ramen places had forced every restaurant to be at the top of its game or risk going out of business. The same couldn’t really be said for the delicious but unremarkable ramen back –

Shiro’s hand went slack and the tangle of noodles slid off his chopsticks.

_Back home._

Not back in Arizona, or back at the Garrison, but... home.

His head turned in slow motion to look at Ryou.

What was that one saying? Home is where the heart is, right? For as long as Ryou had been alive, Shiro considered his younger brother his heart.

When had that changed?

******

Keith curled up on the couch and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders.

Iverson was late.

Sure, he’d texted to let Keith know, but it still stung. Movie nights were sacred, he had told Keith once. He hadn’t lied before. And besides, the Academy was done for the summer. Why was he working more than ever now?

The past two weeks had been boring, isolating Keith in a different way than living on the streets had. Still, Iverson tried to make time for Keith a priority, so he did his best to help out around the house and earn it.

Tonight’s dinner, simple spaghetti in meat sauce, sat on plates in the kitchen, growing colder. He’d even grated the parmesan cheese over it, and washed and dried all the pans.

At least Iverson texted, though. Shiro seemed to have disappeared. Did the phone carriers not communicate across the ocean? But, no, that didn’t make sense. Shiro had mentioned talking to his family before.

Keith fumbled around in the blanket for his phone, unlocking it and getting halfway through a message before frowning. He had no idea what time it was in Japan. Maybe Shiro was asleep right now. Maybe he hadn’t bothered texting because of the time difference.

He put the phone down on the coffee table and curled up tighter.

Iverson would know. But Iverson wasn’t home.

Keith stayed like that for several minutes before he finally heard the rumble of the Jeep, and then the scratch of the key in the front door lock. He twisted around and hooked his chin over the back of the couch.

Iverson stomped inside, talking on his phone as he attempted to shed his jacket with one hand. “No, it was the attitude more than anything... No, I understand that, but....” He kicked off one boot, then bent over to tug on the other, scowling at whatever the person on the other end said. “You’re – you’re saying a lot of things, but none of them are addressing my concerns. Hold on a moment.”

He tucked the phone against his chest as he finally pulled his foot free. With a few curses under his breath, he hung up his coat, then walked straight to the couch. “Sorry, Keith. This will only be a few more minutes.”

Keith nodded and let Iverson ruffle his hair.

“Okay,” Iverson barked into the phone as he retreated to his office, “give me a second to explain. I’m not asking for you to tell me what Ms. Linney wrote. I am pointing out that the contempt she showed for homelessness in general makes her a biased observer.”

The office door swung shut behind him.

Oh. Family Services stuff.

Keith turned around and flopped across the couch, staring first at the blank television, then at the table and his blank phone.

He could still hear the barest hint of Iverson’s voice through the closed door; not enough to pick out words, but enough to gauge his tone. He was clearly still frustrated, almost angry, and probably close to losing his patience.

Keith hunkered down a little deeper into the cushions. He wasn’t sure what Iverson was like when he lost it. This place – this _home_ – was nice. Keith had tried not to do anything to set Iverson off the past few months, keeping his head down and refusing to ask for anything he didn’t need, but it seemed the social workers had undone his success in one phone call. The best he could hope for now was that Iverson wouldn’t notice him until he’d cooled off.

A half hour later, the door to Iverson’s office creaked open and he strode into the kitchen.

“I appreciate you taking this seriously,” he said, still apparently talking on the phone. “And I would appreciate having an actual appointment for the next interview. I...”

He trailed off in the middle of the next word. Keith winced at the clink of a fork against one of the spaghetti plates.

“I have to go now,” he rasped out. “Thank you for your time.”

The scrape of porcelain across the counter made the hair on Keith’s neck stand on end. Iverson’s heavy steps might as well have been on his chest.

“Keith?” Iverson kneeled in front of the couch. He reached a hand out and cupped Keith’s shoulder through the bundle of blankets. Keith held his breath. “Hey. Sorry I was late. Still on for a movie?”

Keith nodded. His throat was too tight for him to speak.

And then Iverson’s face just... softened. His eyebrows sank low and pinched together in the middle, and his mouth went slack. His hand squeezed, then let go of Keith’s shoulder and moved to the side of his head.

“Do you still want the spaghetti? I’ll heat it up.”

The tightness in his throat grew into a burn, and he more twitched his head than nodded.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Iverson said, almost breathed it out, as his thumb dragged across Keith’s cheek, smearing something wet.

Keith jerked back. Was he crying? Was he really crying? It was just – just spaghetti, and just movies, and nothing important, so why was he – it wasn’t a big deal! And he wasn’t even upset! He frowned and pressed the blanket against his eyes, but they stung and it only triggered more tears.

With a soft sigh, Iverson pulled Keith into a hug. “I’m sorry, Keith. I’m sorry.”

His arms were still wrapped up, and he couldn’t do much more than endure and try not to cry any more. But Iverson was still rocking him gently back and forth, and still apologizing for being late, and thanking Keith for cooking.

At some point, Iverson had climbed up onto the couch, cradling Keith against his chest.

It was stupid, crying over nothing.

But Iverson sounded so sorry, looked so guilty, and Keith couldn’t stop.

He stirred awake ten minutes later, curled up with his head on the arm of the couch. Iverson stood before him, offering a glass of water. The two plates of spaghetti had been reheated and left on the coffee table.

Keith took the water and ran his fingers back and forth across the glass a few times before obediently drinking.

Iverson let out a long breath, too controlled to be a sigh, and sat next to Keith’s feet.

“The summer is when a lot of the short-term projects happen here, and when personnel transfer between bases,” he said. “I don’t just manage the Academy. I coordinate a lot of what goes on in the rest of the base, too. It’s been a busy few weeks.” He looked over at Keith and gave a weak smile. “But it’s an excuse. We had plans. I shouldn’t have been so late, and I should have called back Family Services some other time.”

“It’s just movies,” Keith murmured.

“It’s time, and time is important.”

Keith stared at the empty glass. “What was the call?”

The next exhale was definitely a sigh. “Well, I had the lawyer reach out to Family Services about the social worker who was a complete – who was so unpleasant to you, and requested a new one on our case.” He clasped his hands behind his head and shrugged. “They don’t like reassigning social workers.”

Keith nodded. He wasn’t that hungry, doubted he could stomach anything, but he grabbed a plate of spaghetti anyway. He twisted his fork and braced himself; attempting to eat would probably feel like stuffing a sock into his mouth and leaving it.

“Did you want to come with me next week, once everything settles down?”

The fork slipped from Keith’s fingers. “To the Garrison?”

Iverson’s mouth twitched up in the corners. “To the Garrison. It’s been a while, and Montgomery’s been asking about you, too.”

“Sure.”

Iverson let his head fall back against the couch. “I don’t know how other parents can do it.” He dragged his hand down his face, then dropped it to his thigh. “Being away from their kids so much. I... I’ll be glad when you start at the Academy.”

Other parents. Iverson said it so easily. Like... he already considered himself Keith’s parent.

Keith swallowed hard and shoved that thought away. “I haven’t been accepted yet.”

Iverson smiled. “Because you haven’t applied yet. I’d bet money that that’s what Montgomery wants to see you about. No way she’s letting someone as bright and hardworking and promising as you are slip through the cracks.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I won’t let you slip through the cracks either.” He squeezed Keith’s shoulder. “Promise.”

“Promise,” Keith echoed. Iverson patted his shoulder twice, then grabbed the tablet.

“Whose turn is it to pick the movie? Yours?”

“Yours. You always give me too many turns.”

Iverson grinned. “Hmm, maybe I do. Eat up, Keith. How’s something dumb and full of explosions sound?”

Keith reluctantly scooped a few twisted strands of spaghetti into his mouth.

He didn’t gag. Actually, he was pretty hungry. He ate a few more bites before Iverson raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sounds good,” he answered.

Iverson chuckled. “Alright. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

******

Before now, Shiro hadn’t appreciated the quiet of the desert and the Garrison. The relentless noise of Sapporo wore on him – had probably been wearing on him since his arrival. If he never had to hear ambient road noise again, it would still be too soon.

How had he survived fourteen years of it before moving to Arizona? At least he only had one more night of it before his flight back tomorrow.

His bags were already packed, minus the gifts for Keith.

Keith. Shiro sighed. He’d missed his friend more than he had expected to.

He stretched out on his futon and grabbed blindly for his phone, only actually picking it up after an embarrassing number of tries.

Ryou was set up in the main room, working on homework. Final exams were coming soon, he had said, and he still had to put the finishing touches on his long-term research project.

That left Shiro alone in their bedroom, finally with the privacy he wanted so he could message Keith without Ryou’s teasing.

Maybe he should just wait until he was back anyway. He deleted a dozen half-typed messages before finally settling on something simple.

_Hey Keith, how’s Arizona?_

No response. Shiro groaned and dropped the phone by his pillow.

A loud truck drove past the house. A few people blasting music followed. Shiro had half a minute of blissful silence before more road noise filtered in.

Then his phone chirped.

He scrambled to check it, grinning when he saw Keith’s name.

_It’s 5am here Shiro_

Oh. Shit. Right. Time difference. He hastily tapped out a reply.

_I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to bed._

_It’s fine. I’m up now._

Shiro frowned and ran a hand through his hair. He really hadn’t meant to wake Keith, but he’d never had to consider the time adjustment from Japan to Arizona before. In reverse, sure; he kept in touch with his family while he was at the Garrison. But there was never anyone at the Garrison that he’d wanted to talk to over breaks.

His phone chirped again.

_How’s Japan?_

Shiro closed his eyes and breathed deep. Japan was...

He had spent all but four nights of his three weeks back eating at every ramen restaurant in Susukino with Ryou, sometimes also with the rest of his family, and once with some of Ryou’s classmates. They were good kids, bright and energetic. His family was loving and supportive, though strangely more for him than for Ryou. And his old bedroom – even if the partition was only up in the evening – was familiar and comforting.

But it felt like a trip, a temporary vacation before he returned to the Garrison. He bit his lip and typed the vaguest message he could muster.

 _It’s been nice, but I’m looking forward to getting back to Arizona_.

What else should he say? It didn’t seem right to complain about a childhood home not feeling like home anymore to someone who had been homeless for an indeterminate amount of time.

Keith’s reply was quicker this time.

_How soon?_

That he had an answer to.

_My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon, and I think I land at the Garrison on Saturday._

Nothing came in after that. Keith had probably gone back to sleep, like Shiro should be doing now. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling and counted the number of cars he heard drive past the house.

After car number twenty-two, his phone chimed.

_Tell me about Japan?_

Shiro exhaled slowly. How would one explain things that felt like second nature? He chewed on his lip for a second, then settled on explaining the differences.

_The ramen is so much better than anything in America. People are a lot more formal in public. Summer in Sapporo isn’t as hot as in the desert._

It didn’t feel like enough. He waited a few minutes, then sent one more text.

_I miss hanging out with you, though._

Keith’s reply was instant.

_You too. Can we go out on the hoverbike again when you’re back?_

Shiro grinned.

_Definitely._

Their back and forth continued for another ten minutes. Keith told Shiro about the movies he’d seen and the food he was learning to cook. Shiro told Keith about the more nimble Japanese hoverbikes and the time he’d spent with Ryou.

 _I always wanted a sibling,_ Keith said at the end of Shiro’s stories.

Shiro almost offered to be Keith’s surrogate brother, but the thought sent a weird shiver through his stomach. He definitely didn’t want to feel that again. He rolled onto his side and curled around his knees.

_Maybe Iverson will take in another foster._

Even as he sent the message, he knew it wouldn’t happen.

_That would be weird. I like it with just the two of us._

Shiro pulled the blankets up around his ears and smiled. He was sure Iverson wouldn’t, not while Keith was still living with him. He wasn’t the type of person to split his focus.

And the two of them made a charming family.

 _I’m going to try to go back to sleep. I’m probably going with Iverson to the Garrison today_.

Shiro blinked at Keith’s message, then smiled.

_Have fun. See you in a few days._

Shiro settled back under his covers. He couldn’t wait to someday introduce Ryou and Keith.

After a few minutes – and a dozen more cars and one particularly noisy truck – Ryou shuffled into the bedroom with a yawn. He looked down at his hand, and the papers still clutched between his fingers, and groaned.

«Forgot to put it in your bag?» Shiro asked, trying not to grin.

«Shut up, nii-chan,» Ryou grumbled. He stomped out of the bedroom, returning a minute later without his homework. He scowled at Shiro’s bags. «You’re not all packed either.»

Shiro sighed. «I know. I still have to wrap Keith’s gifts. I’ll probably do that tomorrow morning.»

«Are you sure? You leave so early you might not have time.»

«Then I can wrap them after I land. I probably won’t see Keith for a few days.»

Ryou shrugged and grabbed the pile. «Why did you even get him gloves? Didn’t you say the desert is hot?»

«Those are to protect his hands on the hoverbike.»

That got a look of pure envy. «He has a hoverbike?»

«No, not at all,» Shiro laughed out. «I take him out on Montgomery’s hoverbike. And I’ll take you out when you’re there, too.»

«Oh. Okay.» Ryou bit his lip and only gave Shiro sideways looks as he changed into pajamas.

Shiro frowned. «Is something wrong, Ryou-chan?»

Ryou sank into his futon, facing just far away enough that Shiro couldn’t read his expression.

«Ryou-chan?» Shiro eased up onto his elbows and reached out to tug at Ryou’s shirt. «Talk to me.»

«I can’t,» he said, then spat out, «Not without making you hate me.»

«Making me – Ryou, I would never hate you.» Shiro shoved his blankets aside, scrambled up to his knees, and knelt on the edge of Ryou’s bed. «Look at me. I promise, I will never hate you.»

Ryou nodded and curled his shoulders in, hugging one of his arms to himself and sighing.

«I don’t want to be a pilot.»

Shiro froze, staring at Ryou in stunned silence.

Hadn’t Ryou wanted this for years? Wasn’t he constantly working towards it? He talked about it so often, Shiro couldn’t imagine him doing anything else.

«What?» he asked.

«I’m sorry, Nii-chan.»

«Why don’t you want to be a pilot anymore?»

Ryou fidgeted. «I never wanted to be a pilot.»

Words, both English and Japanese, failed Shiro entirely. Why did Ryou act so keen on piloting at the Garrison if he didn’t even want it? What – who even was his brother?

«And now you hate me.»

«No, I just – you talked about it all the time. I’m a little confused.»

Ryou inhaled hard, and exhaled harder. «Everyone is nicer to me if I act like you, like I want to do things that you do.»

And what could Shiro even say to that? Was he ever like that to Ryou? Maybe. Were his parents? Probably, yes. He couldn’t fix other people.

All he could do was fix himself.

He reached out for his little brother, drawing him into a hug.

«Then tell me what you do want to do. I’m behind you all the way.»

Ryou went limp in Shiro’s arms. «Biology stuff.»

«The Garrison has a very good theoretical xenobiology program, you know.» Shiro smiled down at Ryou and let go of him. «Something to consider?»

A tiny grin crinkled Ryou’s eyes as he settled on his own bed. «Sure. I’ll consider it.»

Shiro stretched his arm over to ruffle Ryou’s hair, grinning at his squawk. Ryou thumped him in the shoulder with a pillow, and they both broke into giggles.

«Goodnight, nii-chan,» Ryou yawned.

«Goodnight, Ryou-chan.»

Shiro settled on his side, committing the even rise and fall of Ryou’s blankets to memory. And eventually, as exhaustion won out over street noise, he drifted off to sleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Japan, and though I did a lot of research, I'm open to corrections from anyone who knows it well!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as amairawrites, where I post fanart, writing analysis, and occasional teasers!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this when I was sick, so blame my proofreader for not catching any mistakes.

Iverson set the lock on his office an hour earlier than usual and slung his briefcase strap over his shoulder. Montgomery was already waiting for him at the bar in the officers’ lounge and had promised not to order him any prank drinks.

Not that he believed her.

The lounge was three floors up from his office, with a wall of glass overlooking the desert rather than the town. It was also one of his favorite places to relax on nights he worked late; the stars glittering over the rocks were beyond compare.

Iverson scanned his ID and waited for the doors to slide open, then glanced around the lounge. It was fairly busy, full of several faces he didn’t recognize. Probably visiting officers for the new projects. The floor lamps in the lounge were always kept slightly dimmer than the rest of the Garrison, and right now that softer light felt like a warm, cozy blanket around him. Montgomery had picked one of the tall tables by the windows; her paperwork already took up far more than half of it.

There was a beer in his spot at the table. He set his briefcase on the floor and took a hesitant sniff. It smelled like regular Guinness. Poured within the last five minutes. Nothing suspect.

He took a sip. Just... Guinness.

Montgomery hunched over the table, so focused she had yet to raise her eyes from the paperwork. Her eyebrows were so bunched together that they formed two wrinkles between them, rather than the usual single furrow.

“Lauren?”

She twitched her head up. “Hey Mitch. Got you a beer.”

He slid into his seat. “I noticed. And you didn’t lace it with anything.”

“Not tonight,” she sighed. She pushed a schedule across the table. “The plan was to have Shiro take one day a week of the intermediate fighter and cargo classes, right? That’s what I have here.”

Iverson relaxed in his seat and looked over her work. It was routine stuff; the piloting classes were always on the exact same days, at the exact same time. Team Spaceflight Simulations was always Monday morning, and Advanced Spaceflight Simulations was always Friday afternoon. All that ever changed was which teacher had which classes, and even that didn’t have too much variance with only three teachers.

Iverson pulled his tablet from his briefcase, compared notes, and nodded. “That was before he got the commission, though, and Hedrick just got assigned to the Hesperus project. Do you think he could handle two days a week of fighter?”

Montgomery sighed. “That would make it more his class than Hedrick’s class. I’m not sure he’d be able to handle all that on top of the rest of his final year.” She grumbled, then sighed again, sorting through a stack of student degree audits. “At least TAing means he won’t have to do a graduate year project.”

“He submitted a proposal for one.”

She slapped her hand down on the table, sending a few papers to the floor. “The fuck?”

Iverson took a generous swig of his beer. “It’s a good one, too.”

“Tell me you didn’t approve it.” Montgomery yanked his tablet out of his hands and scrolled through the list of senior students. “You did! What the fuck, Mitch?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Did you read it?”

Montgomery scowled at him. He waited and watched as her eyes darted back and forth over the text of the proposal and the supporting documentation. Her brows drew low into a hybrid of a frown and a pout.

“God damnit,” she growled.

“It’s good.”

“It’s really good. Ugh.”

They sat in relative silence for a few minutes, sipping at their respective beers. Montgomery sorted the degree audits into piles, then stacked those piles on top of each other at clean right angles. Iverson retrieved his own mess of papers – a less organized printout of all the responsibilities his teachers had outside of the Academy – and set them on the table.

They spent the next twenty minutes comparing Garrison assignments for the teachers to degree audits from all of the students in aeronautics programs, and another ten after that with the rest of the cadets enrolled in a spaceflight track for the Team Spaceflight Simulations classes.

“Looks like we won’t need a second Intro to Piloting class after all,” Iverson said. “That will free up whoever teaches that.”

Montgomery frowned at Shiro’s degree audit. “Well, he definitely can’t cover the Friday classes for Hedrick.”

“Wednesday?” Iverson glanced at his own papers. “Looks like Mickelson has scheduled the live flights for 0600 on Mondays.”

“Mickelson or Admiral Sanda? He’s not enough of an asshole to do that to his pilots.”

Iverson scoffed but looked again. Oh. “Yeah. Sanda.”

“Called it,” she sang. “And let’s put Mickelson with the beginner classes again. They always love him.”

“Intro or the specialized ones?”

“Intro. I’ll take Beginner Cargo, and... huh.” Montgomery grabbed Shiro’s degree audit once more and hummed to herself. “Shiro could probably take Beginner Fighter. It’s only two days a week.”

She leaned over the table, a precarious balance of elbows and a non-skid tablet case keeping her steady, and pointed out the gap in his remaining class load created by taking his Team Spaceflight and Advanced Spaceflight classes a year ahead of schedule.

Iverson raised an eyebrow. “You know him better than I do. Do you think he can handle it?”

“Yeah, definitely. And he has the rest of us backing him up for it.”

He sagged in relief. This was much less painful than it should have been, with the Hesperus shuttle project picking up steam and picking off his teachers.

“Good,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I expected this to be much worse. God, Lauren, I’m glad I have you.”

“Well, Shiro’s schedule will be a headache for Ryu to work around, so I just outsourced the pain to him. Have you met with him about the schedules yet?” Montgomery asked.

Iverson gave her a short smile. “No, not yet. You know you always come first.”

He expected her to reply with her usual sass, maybe saying something about how she damn well better come first. Or that of course she did, always, and he better not forget it. Instead, one corner of her mouth twitched up and she shrugged.

“I suppose that’s true,” she murmured.

“It’s been true for thirteen years.”

She laughed at that, and agreed, finally cracking a real smile as her cheeks went pink.

It was, at first, her usual lopsided grin. The kind that was often followed by any number of things that made him cringe, shake his head, or groan. But then it... softened. Relaxed into something sweet and fond, something he found himself mirroring.

He really couldn’t imagine his life without her.

Montgomery raised her beer. “To being done with scheduling.”

“I’m not done yet.” He clinked his glass to her bottle anyway.

She laughed and shoved at his shoulder. “Sucks to be you.” She took a drink, then glanced down and opened her mouth to say something else, only to be cut off by a third voice.

“Mitch?”

He choked on his beer.

All joy vanished from Montgomery’s face, replaced by a cold stare he hadn’t seen in years. He turned in its direction.

“Aisling.”

Her hair had lightened and faded a bit, and her face had a few new lines in it. She wasn’t quite as fit as she had been ten years ago, but then again, neither was he. Her shoulders bore the stripes of Lieutenant rank; she must have been promoted at some point.

“Hey,” she breathed, flashing a quick grin that looked more like a grimace. “It’s been a while.”

Iverson blinked at her. What was he supposed to say to that? What was she even doing here? Last he’d heard, she was in Florida, though he had stopped looking for information on her at least five years ago.

“The hell do you want, Clarke?” Montgomery snapped.

Iverson tore his eyes from Aisling and fixed them on Montgomery.

“Still rude as ever,” Aisling sighed.

Montgomery crossed her arms and her lip curled into a snarl. She and Aisling had never been more than polite to each other, and Montgomery had been furious when Aisling had walked away and left behind nothing more than a short letter and the ring.

Iverson stretched his hand across the table and grabbed her forearm, the only part of her within reach. Her fingers twitched under his as she tensed and relaxed. She turned to him with wide eyes.

“Lauren,” he said, low and quiet. She deflated and frowned. “I’ll be alright.”

She nodded, shook off his hand, and stood. “Not enough beer in the world for this shit,” she grumbled, grabbing her empty bottle and making a beeline for the bar.

Iverson watched as she perched on a bar stool and set her bottle on the counter with a little more force than necessary. And it took a little more effort than usual for him to look away.

“I didn’t know you were still around,” Aisling said. “Or that she was.”

She settled in Montgomery’s vacant chair, glancing at the pile of papers. Iverson yanked them away and tucked them into his briefcase.

“You don’t have clearance to view student records,” he growled.

She frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do, because I’m the person who would have authorized it if you did.”

They were silent for just a beat past awkward and into uncomfortable. Aisling fidgeted with her cuff.

“So you’re in charge of the Academy,” she murmured.

“I am.”

“And Montgomery has clearance?”

“Lauren is the head of the piloting and spaceflight programs.”

Aisling slumped, leaning on her elbow. “Huh.”

Lauren had been his closest friend for thirteen years, and a good friend in general ever since she had started as a substitute teacher between space missions. She had been barely three years out of the academy then, even more of a volatile mix of sass and trouble, but she had blown the other teachers out of the water in terms of piloting and teaching skill.

He had fought hard for her commission and every rank that followed.

He counted the day they both got promoted to Commander as one of his happiest.

Even happier than the day he and Aisling got engaged.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She interlaced her fingers, then pulled them apart and curled just her fingertips together. “I’m part of the design team for the Hesperus Shuttle. Cockpit layout.”

Ten years ago, he would have eagerly jumped into a conversation about her career, her incredible skill with usability and user experience design. He could almost feel the words on his tongue even now. It would be so easy to fall into their old dynamic.

Almost.

It hadn’t been a bad breakup, strictly speaking. It hadn’t been any kind of breakup, aside from abrupt. One day they had a future together, and the next they didn’t. No fighting, no cheating. A few of his colleagues had suggested that he got off easy, with her just quietly disappearing from his life.

He bit his tongue and exhaled.

“That’s not what I meant. Why are you here?”

“The team suggested we meet up here after we got settled in.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Why are you talking to me? You walked out ten years ago without so much as a conversation.”

Aisling bristled for a moment, then looked away. “I don’t recognize anyone else here. I just thought we could catch up.”

No, it hadn’t been a bad breakup, but it had still hurt like hell.

“You thought a lot of things,” Iverson said. He stood and gathered his and Montgomery’s belongings. “And you never bothered to see if they were true.”

As he slung his briefcase strap over his shoulder, Montgomery reappeared at the table. Her frown had faded, and the furrow between her brows had relaxed down to a single line.

“Heading out?” she asked. He handed off her messenger bag, and she tucked it under her arm.

“Yeah. Had a lot of late nights, and I don’t like leaving Keith at home alone for so long.”

Montgomery almost smiled. “Remember to bring him with you tomorrow.”

“Keith?” Aisling asked from behind them. “Who’s Keith?”

“Not your fucking business, that’s who,” Montgomery answered, barely deigning to so much as look over her shoulder.

Aisling’s jaw snapped shut. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled and exhaled in measured intervals.

“Lauren,” Iverson grumbled, “come on.” He turned to Aisling and nodded. “Hope your project goes well, Lieutenant Clarke.”

The door to the lounge slid open as they left, and closed after them with a soft whoosh. Montgomery growled at the empty hallway.

“I can’t believe she’s back.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head at Iverson. “What was she even doing here?”

Iverson sighed and rubbed a hand over his head, staring at the lounge door. “She’s on the Hesperus project.”

“Fuck. Ugh. Well, at least that’s on the other end of the base.”

“Yeah, I guess I...”

He trailed off as he turned back to Montgomery. She stared at the door, mouth flat and tight in the corners, eyes framed by low brows and dark circles. He could count on two hands how many times he had seen her look truly upset over the past thirteen years, and he had hated it every single time.

“Lauren?”

“Mitch.” Her head snapped to him. “Sorry. I just... I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

He smiled and brushed his hand over her shoulder. “I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

She nodded and shrugged. “Yeah. See you tomorrow? With Keith?”

“Of course. Have a good night, Lauren.”

She smiled and gave a half-assed salute as she walked towards the residence hall. “You too.”

******

Iverson had never been talkative, but from last night to this morning, he had been quiet enough for Keith to start to worry. And Keith was worried enough that he couldn’t unbutton his damn shirt in order to put it on.

Did something happen at the Garrison? Iverson didn’t have a bruise like the last time he came home in a weird mood. And it was a different type of weird, anyway. Was... was he getting sick?

Keith gripped his shirt, then clutched it to his chest. He should try to make Iverson stay home. He shouldn’t let him leave for work.

He couldn’t lose Iverson, too. He just couldn’t.

“Keith? Ready to go?”

He yanked the shirt over his head, wincing as it snagged his hair and squished his nose against his face.

Iverson was already dressed in his uniform, briefcase in hand, as Keith emerged from his bedroom.

“Do we have to go?” Keith asked. He cringed at how small and weak his voice sounded, and clung to the one unbroken backpack strap over his shoulder.

But apparently it worked, as Iverson set his briefcase on the floor, and put the back of his hand on Keith’s forehead and frowned.

“You can sleep if you need to. I’ll let Shiro know, and I can come by around lunch to check on you.”

“No!” Keith blurted out, a little too quickly. He couldn’t let Iverson go alone. He had to keep an eye on him, make sure he could make it home safely. “No, I’m fine. I’ll go with you.”

Iverson gave a small smile at that. “Missed Shiro?”

He couldn’t really say much, so he just nodded.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, too. Got your tablet and phone?” He reached out and squeezed Keith’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Keith squinted and ducked his head as the light hit his eyes. At least it was bearable today. Summers in Arizona were already bright and hot by the time Iverson left for work in the mornings, like a more extreme form of what he dealt with in California.

He leaned his head against the window as usual. But though his eyes faced the road and scanned the houses they passed, his focus stayed on Iverson.

Iverson looked, for the most part, just like his normal self. He wasn’t coughing or frowning or pale. But his eyebrows were drawn together a hair more than usual, and his mouth was pressed into a flatter line than Keith had ever seen.

The security guard at the gate automatically handed Iverson a visitor badge as soon as they pulled up, and smiled and waved at Keith.

“Good to see you, kid,” she said.

The walk from parking lot to building to Iverson’s office was so routine by now that Keith could probably find his way on his own, which made it easy to direct all his attention at Iverson himself.

He seemed fine, now. But his dad had seemed fine, too. Dads were always good at acting like everything was fine, right?

The office was dark and quiet as the door slid open. Marisa didn’t usually arrive for another hour, and Keith had no idea how the summer break for the Academy affected her job.

He followed Iverson as he turned the lights on, checked something at Marisa’s desk, and retreated to his private office. Iverson didn’t seem to notice or care that Keith wasn’t sitting in the waiting area like he normally did, simply dropping his briefcase on his chair and retrieving a sleeve of papers.

Keith’s stomach growled. Iverson perked up.

“Why don’t you go get something to eat? I ate at home before you were up,” he said, smiling in a way that looked... strained. Not his usual relaxed smile. Maybe lying? No, Iverson never lied.

Keith shifted his weight between his feet and wrung his hands. “You won’t come with me?”

“Sorry, Keith, I can’t,” he said, pausing whatever he was doing with the papers for a moment. “This is a busy week for me.”

Keith let his head droop. He couldn’t think of anything else. Iverson’s work was important, and Keith couldn’t expect him to drop it to go to a breakfast he didn’t need. But he also couldn’t just leave Iverson alone.

Then the door to the office whooshed open, and Montgomery strode right in.

“Good, you’re here,” she called out. She poked her head inside Iverson’s office and grinned as she saw Keith. “Hey Keith. I need to steal Iverson for a meeting right now. Shiro should be around here somewhere, though, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

Keith curled a hand around his backpack strap. His stomach gurgled again.

Montgomery raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t eat?”

“No, I....” He trailed off. Of course. Montgomery could keep watch over Iverson and make sure he was okay. She was no fool, and Keith trusted her. He shrugged his backpack a little closer. “I was just about to get breakfast.”

“You remember how to get there, right?” Iverson asked, finally looking straight at Keith. Keith nodded. Iverson flashed a real smile, even if it was small. “Alright. Message me if you need anything.”

Keith slipped out of the way with only a quick backwards glance, just enough to see Montgomery stepping the rest of the way into Iverson’s office.

She would be at his meetings, right? She could keep an eye on him.

The halls were colder and darker than they had seemed before, even though Keith was certain they hadn’t actually dimmed the lights or changed the building temperature. Regardless, he had goosebumps and a weird twinge behind his left eye by the time he reached the cafeteria.

With the Academy out of session, and only a few students remaining on-base for the summer, the cafeteria was nearly deserted; only a few tables had people sitting at them, most of them officers. And Keith had come around the Garrison often enough that no one even gave him a second glance anymore.

Until Shiro shouted his name.

He whipped around to see Shiro almost running to him from across the room, and a few spectators following him with their eyes.

“Keith!” he said again, breathless. He held out his right hand and Keith mimicked the gesture, only to get yanked into a hug.

He might have yelped.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Shiro apologized, letting up on his grip around Keith’s shoulders. He was absolutely beaming. “It’s good to see you.”

Keith blushed and fought off a grin, ducking his head to hide his face. “I really missed you,” he mumbled. His forehead brushed Shiro’s chest, and Shiro wrapped both arms around him for a gentler hug.

Then Shiro’s hands found the broken backpack strap. He pulled back and tugged on the fraying nylon.

“What happened to your bag?”

Keith curled his shoulders down. “It wore out.”

Shiro’s smile turned soft. “You can have my old one. Shall we go?”

“I... can I eat first?”

“Oh! Yeah, of course.” Shiro scratched the back of his neck and walked with Keith to the food line.

Keith grabbed his usual four slices of bacon and mystery fruit cup, and puzzled over the other breakfast options. They were new, now, and he didn’t quite recognize most things.

“Have you tried the crepes?”

He looked up at Shiro, then back at the food. “Which ones are those?”

Shiro reached around him and grabbed a pair of tongs, lifting two folded, paper-thin pancakes from one of the metal trays and dropping them on Keith’s plate. “You have to try the orange sauce on them. It’s so good,” he gushed.

He let Shiro ladle a generous amount over the crepes, then followed him to a quiet corner table.

The orange sauce turned out to be just okay; goopy, overly sweet, and nowhere near as delicious as Shiro thought it was.

Shiro balked. “It’s... ‘just okay’?” He frowned at Keith’s plate and pouted. “You don’t appreciate good food. It’s amazing. I can’t believe you think it’s _just okay_ , Keith.”

“Really, Shiro,” Keith said, almost laughing as Shiro continued to whine, “it’s not bad. It’s just not great either.”

He sniffed and crossed his arms. “Sure.”

They were both silent for a moment, before breaking into giggles.

“I guess it’s really more of a dessert thing, anyway,” Shiro finally conceded.

Oh. That kind of explained why it tasted off. Keith didn’t get much dessert-type food at home, since Iverson was so –

Keith’s stomach lurched. Iverson! How could he just forget? Was Montgomery still with him? Was he still okay? There wasn’t – there didn’t seem to be – anything around the Garrison that could just... kill him, right? At least, not with the Academy.

But the Academy wasn’t in session. And he had no idea what Iverson did on a daily basis without it.

“Keith?”

“Sorry! Just, uh....” He trailed off, then swallowed hard as he thought of an excuse. “Worried about my application.”

Shiro brightened up immediately. “You’ll definitely get in. You’re amazing, Keith.”

His smile was radiant, and Keith’s cheeks began to tingle as a blush washed over them. “I... can you look at it before I submit it?”

“Definitely. I brought back some things from Japan for you, too.”

“Really?” Keith couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice, and blushed even harder.

“Of course I did!” Shiro laughed, then stood and offered his hand to Keith. “You can’t just travel somewhere and not bring back souvenirs. Come on, want to see my new rooms?”

Keith hesitated. “I... I should check in with Iverson first. So he knows where I’m going.”

Nothing could wipe the smile from Shiro’s face. “Good idea. And it’s on the way.”

Shiro chattered on about Japan, about seeing his brother and eating ramen all the time, and about the food being so good and how things just smell different there. Keith tried to listen, tried to focus, but couldn’t help the knot growing in his chest as they drew closer and closer to Iverson’s office. Was he done with the meeting? Had he even left yet?

The door slid open, and Shiro waited in the hallway.

Iverson’s private office was closed, but the lights were on inside it. Keith crept up to it and tilted his ear towards the door. He could barely make out Iverson’s voice, and could see the shadow of someone sitting opposite his desk through the window.

He sighed in relief. Montgomery was still there with him.

Keith pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to Iverson.

_Found Shiro_

After a moment, Iverson replied.

_Have fun. Check in around lunch._

Keith exhaled hard. Okay. Iverson was fine.

“He wants me to check in around lunch,” Keith said, as Shiro cheerfully greeted him outside the office. As if it had been more than a minute.

“That gives us plenty of time.”

Shiro’s apartment was about a third the size of Iverson’s house minus the bedrooms, and it felt clean and cold and empty. Keith lined up his boots with Shiro’s next to the door, then glanced around. Was this what his dorm would be like?

“I know it’s not much yet,” Shiro murmured, scratching at the back of his neck. “I haven’t had a chance to get any real furniture.”

“It’s fine.”

“Okay. Wait right there,” Shiro said, pointing at the couch in what seemed to be a living room area. It didn’t have a table like Iverson’s living room did.

And the couch was kind of stiff.

Shiro disappeared into a second room and came back out wearing a grin and holding out a tightly wrapped box. “These are for you.”

Keith looked from the box to Shiro’s face. “What?”

“It’s stuff I brought back from Japan.”

“Oh.” Keith took the box from Shiro and set it on his lap. “But... why? It’s not my birthday until October.”

“You can’t just go somewhere and not bring back gifts for your friends!” Shiro sounded scandalized, but wore an even brighter grin.

Keith’s eyebrows drew tightly together. “You... can’t?”

“I – that’s not – it’s just – it’s a Japanese thing. Tradition,” Shiro stammered.

Keith nodded, and worked his fingers into the knot at the top of the box, slowly peeling away the fabric and lifting the lid.

It was a pile of candy.

“There’s more,” Shiro said, dropping down on the couch next to him and leaning over the box.

Keith nudged the candy out of the way and pulled out a book.

“I, uh, didn’t know if you could write Japanese. Or – I can help you through it if you can’t read it either,” Shiro explained, cheeks slightly pink.

Keith flipped through a few pages, recognizing the shape of some of the characters, but not what they meant. His dad had been so intent on Keith polishing up his English skills that his Japanese had fallen behind.

He let the book close and set it aside. Did Iverson know any other languages?

Was Iverson still okay?

“There’s one more thing,” Shiro said.

“You didn’t have to get me so much stuff,” Keith replied, digging through even more little bags of candy to the bottom of the box, uncovering a pair of fingerless gloves.

Shiro launched into another explanation as Keith examined them. “They’re for hoverbikes, but they’re also good for lifting weights, or long practice sessions in the sims.”

The fabric felt so soft to the touch. Pitch black, a little stretchy, with slight padding over the palm.

“I have a pair, too, but they’re a different brand, I think.”

Keith tugged one on, wiggled his fingers, and did the same with the other.

“Anyway, I had to guess at your size, so –”

“They’re perfect,” he breathed.

Shiro’s mouth hung open for a moment, then stretched wide into a smile. “Okay. Good. I was... a little worried.”

Keith frowned. “About what?”

“Nothing, apparently.” He bit his lip, and Keith’s mind got a little fuzzy. He had almost forgotten how attractive Shiro was. “I can look over those essays, if you want.”

Oh. Right. “Sure.”

They settled into opposite ends of the couch, Shiro with Keith’s tablet, and Keith with a bag of gummy candies and the Japanese book.

Not that he could actually read the book, yet. He just liked looking at the characters and tracing the shapes with his fingers. They reminded him of his dad, and he missed his dad.

But every time he tried to remember him, his memories came up short. He couldn’t even picture his face.

Or, more recently, his dad looked and sounded a little like Iverson.

Did that make him a bad son? If he couldn’t even remember his own dad? He knew they sometimes took trips to the fire station, but not what they did there. He knew they had lived in a small cabin, but not how the rooms were laid out. He knew –

“These are really good, Keith.”

He blinked a few times and glanced up at Shiro through his lashes. “They are?”

Shiro chuckled. “Better than mine were, that’s for sure. Here,” he said, handing the tablet back. “Ready to submit?”

Keith’s hands trembled at the thought. “What if I don’t get in?”

“Then I take unfair advantage of being an officer, and I go off base all the time to visit you.”

Shiro’s smile and good cheer was infectious, and Keith found himself smiling back and leaning over so Shiro could see his screen, too.

“And if I do get in?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Keith stared at the screen, with the application all filled out, and all the attached essay files linked at the bottom of the page right next to a large button that said SUBMIT.

He swallowed hard and tapped it.

After a moment, a message box popped up, thanking him for his application and – well, he didn’t know what the rest of it said, as Shiro yanked him into a bone-crushing hug. Keith sputtered and laughed.

“You’ll make it in for sure,” Shiro insisted. “Now, lunch?”

Keith froze. “Lunch?”

“Yeah, it’s lunch time.”

Shiro said a few more things, but Keith couldn’t hear them. Lunch. He was supposed to check in with Iverson before lunch, but he had no messages on his phone.

What if... what if something happened?

“I... I have to go check in with... I was supposed to, before lunch,” he stammered, lurching to his feet.

“Can you text him?”

Keith shook his head and stumbled to his boots. Tears welled up in his eyes and he blinked them away. “I can’t. I have to... I can’t.”

Shiro’s shouts followed him as he ran out of the apartment, but he didn’t hear any of the words.

He had to make sure Iverson was okay.

******

Iverson folded his hands on his desk as Keith left for the cafeteria.

Montgomery leaned against the doorframe like she owned it, looking down at Iverson with a smug smile. “I’d better have Keith’s application in my hands by the end of the day.”

Iverson chuckled. “He wants Shiro to look at it first.” He sighed, then frowned. “Probably why he seems so stressed today.”

“I did wonder about that.” Montgomery turned and stared at the main door for a few moments. “He shouldn’t have to worry. His essays and test scores are solid.”

“They are, but he doesn’t really have any context for that.”

Montgomery sighed. “That’s true.”

They were silent for long enough that it felt awkward.

Montgomery huffed and shook her head. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“What?” What could she possibly have to be sorry about? Or did she mean in general? Iverson furrowed his brows at her, and she lowered hers at him in return.

“For blowing up at Clarke – Aisling – like that.”

Iverson almost laughed. “Bullshit, Lauren. I’ve seen you blow up. That was nothing.” He stood and stretched. His back was way too stiff today. “It was a weird night. I never expected to see her again.”

“No shit,” Montgomery scoffed. “She didn’t exactly leave you much else to expect.”

That much was true. He sat back down and ran his hand over his head. Aisling had always been all or nothing with what she did; he had admired that about her, even when she had turned it on him and left him feeling somewhat adrift in her absence.

Their phones chimed in unison, and Montgomery, always quicker to check hers, groaned. “Dos Santos is late. Again.”

“Jesus Christ,” Iverson growled. “If he wasn’t the best damn engineering teacher on staff I’d have his ass transferred already.”

“I know, right? Sucks that he’s such a good program director. Ah well. Might as well get settled in while we wait,” Montgomery said with an exaggerated yawn, dropping into a chair and kicking her feet up on Iverson’s desk.

He shoved her feet off and she laughed, lifting them right back up.

“Come on, Lauren.”

“Come on, Mitch,” she mimicked. She swung her left leg out of the way of his hands and toed at his keyboard. “Damn, not enough reach.”

Iverson’s lips curled up into a grin. “Shorty.”

She glowered and tried to kick his keyboard with twice as much force. “I’m only two inches shorter than you.”

“They are two very important inches.”

“Whatever.” Montgomery sighed, shook her head, and let one corner of her mouth twitch into a smile.

Iverson caught her boots and held her feet in place. His hands clenched and relaxed as he turned his words over in his mouth. “How do you think things would have been different if she hadn’t left?”

The playful look dropped from her face and part of him regretted asking the question.

“I don’t know,” she eventually said. “There’s no real way to know what it would have been.”

“Humor me?”

Montgomery bit her lip. “I can’t. You and I were friends, but you never told me much about your relationship.” She clasped her hands and stared down at her lap. “To be honest, I’m not sure why she left. You two seemed like such a good match.”

Iverson paused his thumbs where they had been absently dragging up and down the soles of her boots. “I was so focused on work that she felt I was neglecting her.”

“See, that’s – that’s bullshit. That’s something you have a conversation about, instead of just disappearing after – how many years?”

“Six years.”

“Six years. You don’t just walk out without a word after six fucking years.”

Iverson couldn’t argue with that, nor did he want to. Thinking about it brought bits of that pain back, dulled over time like week-old bruises.

“Well,” Montgomery said, slow and hesitant, “I can say that if you had stayed together, and had kids with her, you probably wouldn’t have Keith now.”

He sighed, nodded, and slumped over his desk, resting his crossed arms over her ankles. “Wouldn’t have had room in the house.”

“Is that why you bought it?”

“Yeah. It’s hard to raise kids on base. I worked all kinds of overtime for the deposit, and then... wasn’t around for the relationship side of things, I guess.”

“Still think it’s bullshit,” Montgomery grumbled under her breath.

His phone chimed, but it wasn’t in his pocket.

Montgomery smiled, his phone in her hand. “Keith says he found Shiro.”

“How did you – Lauren, what the fuck?”

“You left it on the desk! It was fair game!” She twisted away as he tried to reach for it. “Okay, what should I tell him?”

“Fair game,” he mumbled. “Tell him to check in around lunch.”

She tapped away and grinned, then slid his phone back to him. “Done! I told him to have fun, too.”

“Thank you, Lauren,” he said, as dully as he could. “Whatever would I do without you.”

She was saved from answering by chimes from both their phones, frowning when she couldn’t get hers out of her pocket in her lounging position no matter how she twisted around.

“Huh, how about that,” he mused.

“Mitch,” she warned, tugging on one of her legs.

Iverson grinned and tightened his grip around her feet. “Wonder what that message could be.”

She growled at him.

“Must be something important about the meetings, if it went to both of us,” he continued.

“Yes, Mitch, it must be.” Her glare faltered as the smile she was suppressing cracked through. Her eyes crinkled around the corners and she went lax in his hold, dropping her head against the back of the chair. “Damnit. I earned that one.”

Iverson stood and patted her feet. “Yes you did.”

Now freed, she pulled her phone free from her pocket and raised an eyebrow. “Dos Santos is finally here. You’d think he’d have less trouble with this, seeing how he lives like two floors away.”

“You would think,” Iverson said, “and you would be wrong.”

Montgomery cracked up, then swung her legs off the table and sprang to her feet, leading the way out of the office.

The meeting was as routine as always; between the usual jokes about Iverson showing obvious favoritism to the spaceflight program (everything was ultimately part of the spaceflight program) and the half-hearted complaints about scheduling being terrible this year (everyone was actually happy with their schedules every year), he could probably have led the meeting in his sleep. And Dos Santos was late so often that Iverson always scheduled the extra half hour just in case.

As such, Iverson had two hours after this meeting before his next one, which he fully intended to use to go over admissions applications with Montgomery.

And of course she kicked her legs up on his desk again.

“I’m stealing your espresso machine,” he said.

She shot him a look. “I’ll lay your ass out in front of all the cadets in the combat demonstrations.”

He chuckled and swiped through the first few pages of the application on his tablet. Those were basic demographic information and test scores and grades. What he really wanted was the essays; those told him who the kids really were, to the degree that any overanalyzed, critiqued, revised, perfected essay could.

He typed a few comments and forwarded it to Montgomery, who liked seeing the demographic and test score information. They worked together in companionable silence, and he was through a dozen applications when someone knocked on his door.

Iverson and Montgomery locked eyes and sighed.

She stretched back, pawing at the door handle before she managed to bat it in just the right way to open the door.

“What,” she groused up at the ceiling.

Then Aisling stepped into the office, and Montgomery muttered a string of curses, and Iverson’s brain flatlined for a second.

“You know what?” Montgomery said, actually kicking his keyboard this time as she wiggled her legs off the desk. “You two just... sort your shit out so it’s not weird, okay? I’ll be in my office.”

She left without another word or look back, leaving the office door slightly ajar and stalking out into the hallway.

Iverson set his tablet on the desk. Aisling slowly lowered herself into the chair Montgomery had been sitting in, gripping the arms of it like her life depended on it.

Fuck it. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant? I don’t have much input on the Hesperus project.”

She looked up from where she had been dragging her fingernails along a worn seam. “I wanted to apologize for leaving the way I did all those years ago.”

His eyes must have gone wide, as she glanced away and then back at him.

“It was wrong, and... well, basically that.”

He stared, exhaled, and frowned. “Okay. Thank you. I appreciate the apology.”

She frowned as well. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” He picked up his tablet again.

“You never reached out.”

“I respected your decision to leave.”

The office grew silent, then uncomfortable. Aisling didn’t move from the chair. Iverson sighed, rubbed his temples, and set the tablet down again.

“What did you want, Aisling? You weren’t the type to linger without a reason. What is it?”

She huffed. “Are you seeing anyone?”

He leaned forward. “Does it matter if I am or not?” he countered.

Aisling’s brows pulled down low over her eyes and she pursed her lips – or maybe bit the inside of her cheek. She used to do that on occasion.

“Did you expect it to matter?”

“No,” he answered. “I didn’t expect to see you again for the rest of my life. But you’re here now, sitting in that chair like you’re waiting for something. What is it?”

She had made sense to him once, before she upended everything he thought he knew about her. Not so much now.

“We had some good times,” she finally said, and it was as much a non-answer as anything could be. But she continued, “I made a stupid decision.”

“The best you can do is learn from your mistakes.”

“Or try to fix them.” Her cheeks were pink now, her eyes bright, and she was still just as pretty as she had been ten years ago. “I... I suppose I want to rekindle things. See what happens.”

Iverson leaned back in his chair.

Shit.

Of all the things he thought she could have wanted, he had hardly expected this. They hadn’t spoken for ten years. She was practically a stranger now.

And now she wanted to get back together.

She had clasped her hands in her lap now, waiting for him to say something.

“If... if anything is going to happen, it will happen the same way it did the first time. Not picking up where we left off. Nothing decided right now.”

“Right,” she said, though it sounded like a question. Unsure.

“I have other priorities that come first.”

She tilted her head back at that, both curious and appraising. But she didn’t ask about it.

“So, you’re head of the Academy?”

With a few fits and starts, they managed to catch up on each other’s lives.

Aisling had been awarded an officer’s commission three years ago, after years of highly respected work as a Specialist. She had dated someone for about a year before he got transferred to Germany, but otherwise focused on her career.

She hadn’t changed much from the woman he remembered.

After a half hour, he was lounging in his chair as she rested her elbows on his desk, just like old times, trading stories of the little things that happened around base.

Then the door to the waiting area slid open with a hiss, and Keith came stumbling through the waiting area and into the office, looking near tears.

Iverson shot to his feet.

“Hey! You can’t just–!” Aisling started, scowling at Keith, like she used to do when cadets barged into their conversations in the past.

Iverson silenced her with a single hand motion.

“Keith? What happened?”

Keith lunged forward and buried his face in Iverson’s chest. He was trembling.

Aisling’s eyebrows buried themselves in her hairline. Iverson gave her a single look, the same he gave cadets when they were dismissed. And he held that stare until she stood and excused herself, passing a worried Shiro on her way out.

“I’m sorry,” Keith murmured. “I didn’t come check in on time.”

Was it lunch time already? Huh. “I lost track of time, too. It’s okay, Keith.”

“It’s not okay!”

He rubbed a hand up and down Keith’s back. “I’m not upset.”

Keith clung tighter. “I can’t lose you, too,” he whispered.

“Whoa, Keith.” He peeled the boy off of him and pulled his chin up so they were eye to eye. “You’re not going to lose me.”

Keith’s face crumpled. “But you’re sick. You went to work sick and – and I didn’t check in on time. You could have....”

A tear streamed down his cheek, and Iverson brushed it away. He had seen Keith upset before, but never like this. Never this mix of raw pain and fear.

He tucked Keith back into his arms, hesitating a second when Keith pressed an ear against his chest, just over his heart. Shiro hovered in the doorway, waiting for permission to enter, and he nodded.

Shiro seemed just as confused by the whole situation.

“I’m not sick, Keith.”

Keith froze. “You’re not – but this morning you were so – you weren’t _you_.”

“I was stressed, not sick.” He squeezed Keith a little tighter. “Why are you so worried about me being sick?”

Keith let out a miserable keen, then took a deep breath and let a shiver run through his body.

“My...” he started, swallowed hard, and continued, “my dad went to work sick. And he... I didn’t... I can’t...” The rest of whatever he was going to say got tangled up in soft hiccups, lost in the effort of trying not to cry.

In some corner of his mind, Iverson knew Keith’s parents had to have passed away at some point. His mother was probably some time when Keith was very young, since he had never mentioned her.

He had mentioned his father, though; it was only once, in passing, about where they had lived. But it had been enough to figure out that his father was a single parent, and likely the only parent Keith had ever known.

“I didn’t make him stay home,” Keith whimpered.

Only twenty years of experience working with teenagers kept Iverson from cursing up a storm.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, automatically.

“But I should have made him stay.”

Iverson looked up at Shiro, who hovered over the guest chair, torn between staying out of the way and wanting to rush to Keith’s side and wrap him in a hug, too.

“Keith,” he breathed, rocking the boy back and forth in his arms, “God. I... I promise you, if I’m ever sick, I’ll see a doctor before work. But it’s never your responsibility to make sure of that. I’m an adult and I have to take care of myself, okay?”

Keith nodded.

“And being at the Garrison, I’m actually closer to doctors than I would be at home.”

Keith looked up at him, teary-eyed and hopeful. “Really?”

“I’m safe here. I promise. You won’t lose me.”

“Promise,” he echoed, then frowned. “I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.”

Iverson tried to give Keith a reassuring smile. “It wasn’t a work meeting. I have one in about fifteen minutes, but I can take off early after that if you want me to.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll – oh. I just ran out on Shiro.”

Iverson’s eyes flicked to Shiro, now perched awkwardly in the seat. Keith noticed, then turned and blanched.

“Hey,” Shiro said, raspy and quiet, as he rose to his feet. “Uhm... want to help me pick out some furniture for my apartment?”

Keith’s answer was a nod and a soft, hesitant hug, muffling whatever he was saying to Shiro. And Shiro kept an arm around his shoulders as he led the way out of the office, only turning back to fire off a sloppy salute.

Iverson sighed, slumped down into his chair, and picked up his tablet once more.

A smile crept over his face at the next application on his screen.

_Kogane, Keith_

******

Keith kicked his feet under the blankets, both too cold and too warm to be comfortable.

He... he missed his dad, but he couldn’t remember his face anymore, and he couldn’t remember his voice anymore, and every time he thought of him it just got fuzzier.

Keith clenched his fists and curled up, tucking his chin under the blanket as much as he could, and huffing when the sheets caught under his nose.

He had lost his dad. His dad was... gone, and got more gone every day.

But he had Iverson, now. And he wasn’t going to lose him. Iverson had promised.

And no one except his dad had wanted to keep him, either. No one, until Iverson came along.

So... it was okay, right? For Iverson to be his dad, too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://amairawrites.tumblr.com), where I post occasional fanart, writing analysis, and ask memes in case you'd like to peek inside my head.
> 
> If you'd like, you can help support my tea addiction via [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/amaira).


	10. Chapter 10

Shiro had always felt adrenaline surges in the weirdest spots: under his biceps, behind his ears, in the crease between his thighs and hips, in the arch of his feet. But as he sat in the cockpit of a real IGF Harpy jet in the hazy light of dawn, he felt it everywhere.

He’d already had two coffees; Mickelson had forbidden breakfast, insisting that it was important he didn’t have a full stomach on his first few flights, frowning when he heard that Shiro planned to meet up with Keith immediately after the flights. Something about getting sick, but it was all a bit fuzzy in Shiro’s head. After all, he’d just spent an hour having the flight plan and procedures for the day hammered into his head.

_“Ready, Ensign Shirogane?”_

He jolted at Mickelson’s voice. “Huh?”

The other four pilots in the morning’s flight team chuckled. He’d already forgotten their names.

_“Wake up, kiddo,”_ the pilot-in-command – Lieutenant Givern, he remembered – chided. Shiro could hear the grin in her voice, and his cheeks flamed red.

“I’m awake, I just–!” he blurted out before clamping his mouth shut.

His headset rang with their howls of laughter.

_“Alright, alright, everyone, that’s enough,”_ Mickelson said, very obviously stifling a few laughs himself. _“Let Shiro have a moment before his first live flight.”_

And at that, they cheered.

Givern chuckled into her mic. _“We’ll take it easy on you today. Sound off, everyone. Givern, oscar-one-one.”_

_“Hetherington, india-two-fiver.”_

_“Baker, delta-one-two.”_

“Shirogane, sierra-three-niner.”

_“Louis, tango-four-two.”_

_“Hey, Shirogane remembered his spot in line!”_

_“Can it, Hetherington. Line up, children.”_

Shiro’s hands gripped the controls. It was all so familiar, muscle memory from hundreds of hours in the simulators. He pushed forward gently – gently! – grinning like an idiot when he could actually feel the jet start to move. It inched along the taxiway as the other jets scooted past it.

_“Any day now, Shirogane,”_ Hetherington drawled. _“Or Mickelson, can you take over and get him to the line before the sun sets?”_

_“Hetherington, if you don’t shut the fuck up and let Shiro do his thing without being an asshole, you’re grounded,”_ Givern snapped.

_“Yes ma’am.”_

Shit. Mickelson had warned him that Givern ran a tight ship, but... wow.

His jet ambled over to the gap between Baker and Louis, wobbling a bit as he turned... and adjusted, and turned, and adjusted.

_“Pre-flight checks, everyone.”_

Those he had done blindfolded in the sims. Here, he did it all meticulously, with trembling hands. This was a real jet, not a sim, and failure could mean his own death. Even if Mickelson did have remote piloting access.

Everything came back normal.

The pilots all radioed in their successful checks, and Givern opened up the frequency to the rest of the base.

_“Harpy squad four, ready for clearance from Air Traffic Control.”_

Shiro’s heart raced and his limbs ached. The rush in his ears drowned out almost everything else in his headset; it was a miracle he heard the call for the pilots to sound off in order again.

A raspy voice from ATC crackled at the end. _“Harpy squad four, clear for takeoff on Runway 2.”_

They rolled across the taxiways, rather like ducklings, finally lining up at the south end of the runway.

Then Givern’s jet shot off like a rocket, launching into the sky, followed by Hetherington, then Baker, then...

Shiro tightened his grip on the controls, shoving them forward so hard his forearms ached. And his jet’s engines screamed, spun up, shot the jet forward so quickly his head thunked the back of the chair.

And then he was in the air.

God, he was _actually flying_.

They did a few warm-up laps around the edge of the Garrison’s airspace. Every tiny turn and bank pressed Shiro in different directions, with actual G forces the simulator couldn’t fake. On their third lap, Givern gave the order for the V formation, and Shiro slid into his spot just behind her right wing.

It was far more complex than simulator drills, watching Givern’s movements and listening to her directions and keeping an eye on the radar. Most of it was simple: adjusting their angle of attack, raising and lowering their altitude, reducing or expanding the distance between their jets.

Then his entire jet vibrated around him, and he yelped.

_“Shit, that’s some bad turbulence,”_ Louis said. He almost sounded bored.

Givern hummed. _“Alright, low-altitude drills for the next half hour. Training targets will appear on your radar, and it’s your job to chase them down.”_ She paused, and if she had been Montgomery, she might have been smirking. But she stayed deadly serious. _“Whoever catches the least has to buy coffees for everyone next week.”_

The rest of the crew protested.

_“Targets are ready, Lieutenant, just give the word,”_ Mickelson said. Shiro had almost forgotten he was part of this, too.

_“Load ‘em and go,”_ she purred.

His headset screeched – as did everyone else’s, judging by their groans and Baker’s cursing – as the radar adjusted for the new data.

His first target was only four kilometers north of his current position, heading east. He whipped the jet around, just barely on the friendly side of the disorienting G forces, and began the chase.

Six targets later, he could barely remember his name or the events of the last twenty minutes, as Givern gave the call for them all to land.

_“Louis, call off the results.”_

_“We got... Baker in first with eight, Shirogane in second with six, Hetherington and Givern tied in third with five, me with four, and... Mickelson in last, with zero.”_

Everyone burst out laughing as Mickelson protested the unfairness of it all. Louis refused to relent.

_“Your name is on the chart!”_

Mickelson growled. _“Fine. You’re all a bunch of assholes.”_

Shiro laughed, and – oh. That felt weird. He swallowed hard, landed with an uncomfortable lurch, and coasted off to join the rest of the flight team by their hangar. The ground crew swarmed the jet, securing it, and Shiro slumped over the controls. He... well, he didn’t feel so great.

Maybe he should call Keith and cancel.

No. He missed Keith. He missed him every moment he wasn’t around.

The top of the jet popped open with a hiss. Shiro stretched and climbed down the steps as carefully as he could, gripping the railing so hard his fingers ached. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he stumbled over to the grass and vomited.

“Alright there, Shiro?”

His mouth filled with saliva, and he spat it out. “Hey, Lieutenant.”

“And this is why we don’t have breakfast until we’re used to flying real jets,” Mickelson said, serene as a B-movie monk. He handed Shiro his bag, and Shiro dug through it for his phone. “Rescheduling with your friend?”

“Yeah, I...” Shiro trailed off at the stream of messages from Keith.

_Wow, which one’s you?_

_Bet you’re the fast one._

_Just saw you land. Iverson is taking me back to the main base, so I’ll meet you in the lobby area. Want anything from the cafeteria?_

“Well, I guess not, since he’s already here,” Shiro croaked. His stomach lurched again and he spat bile into the grass.

Mickelson helped Shiro to his feet and gripped his arms hard. “Steady?” Shiro nodded, and Mickelson let go. “I’ll drive you there. Where to?”

Five minutes later, Shiro was slumped in the passenger seat of one of the topless Garrison Jeeps as Mickelson drove, cradling his phone to his chest and letting his head loll against the doorframe. They pulled up at the front doors of the main building, and Shiro stumbled out. Everything ached.

“Got it okay, Shiro?”

He smiled, nodded, and gave Mickelson a shaky wave.

“Alright, kid. Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Shiro said. His chest bloomed with something like warmth as the next thought popped into his head. “Keith will take care of me if I don’t.”

Mickelson laughed, gave Shiro a fake salute and orders to stay safe, and drove off.

Right as Keith burst out the front doors. “Shiro!”

Shiro hobbled around, and got to watch the grin fall from Keith’s face in slow motion.

“Shiro, what happened?”

He gave a wobbly smile. “The simulators don’t capture everything about real flying.”

Keith stepped closer and wrapped an arm around Shiro’s waist. “You look terrible. How did you get back here?”

“Thanks Keith,” Shiro drawled. His stomach bubbled, but at least he only had to burp this time. “Mickelson dropped me off.”

“Oh. I was hoping to thank him for letting me ride his hoverbike.”

Shiro draped an arm over Keith’s shoulders and dropped his cheek to the top of Keith’s head. He was really warm, and something about him just felt soft and safe. “You’ll get to soon enough. And I need a ginger ale, stat.”

“Okay.” Keith tightened his grip and ducked his head. Was he blushing? “Does the cafeteria have it?”

“Yes it does. Let’s go.”

******

Keith’s hands trembled as he ran them over the large, flat envelope in the pile of mail, with the Galaxy Garrison Academy’s logo on it, addressed to him.

Iverson had told him to watch the mail a few days ago, and that acceptance and rejection letters were going out soon. He couldn’t tell Keith if he had been accepted because he didn’t know himself; any involvement in the decision would have been a conflict of interest.

Keith darted back inside, locking the door behind him. He set the envelope on the couch and sat on the floor staring at it. Should he open it? Should he wait until Iverson was home? His dad – foster dad – would want to know what it said.

It... it was his though, right? It had his name on it, so he could open it now if he wanted to, and tell Iverson later. He bit his lip and dug a fingernail into a seam in the paperboard, holding his breath until it popped apart.

Out slid a glossy booklet, and a few brightly colored papers full of photos and weird boxes of text.

The photos and boxes seemed to be some kind of graduate feedback on the school, positive reviews printed up for people to read. Keith already knew everything they were talking about with regards to the Garrison itself. Perks of his dad – _foster dad_ – working there. The bits about making lasting friendships intrigued him, though. Would he meet more people like Shiro?

He and Shiro had spent more time texting each other than hanging out in person, lately, besides the one visit after his first flight. Being an officer had Shiro busy, though he had promised to show Keith the real jets up close soon.

Keith set the first paper aside and picked up the second. It outlined a schedule for orientation, not that Keith knew what that meant.

Whatever.

The booklet had more interesting things in it: summaries of different classes, the major branches of study, and a little bit about student life outside of the classroom.

He’d have to ask Iverson about some of that. Or maybe Shiro. Or both? And how was he supposed to know if he even got in? This was just... generic stuff. No name on any of it, no confirmation.

Frustrated, Keith picked up the envelope and shook it out over the floor.

Two more papers fluttered down onto the rug. The first was a form to fill out, with a scan code at the bottom to load it onto his tablet. Huh.

The second started with his name.

_Keith Kogane,_

_Congratulations! The Galaxy Garrison Academy in Arizona is pleased to inform you that your application has been accepted, and you are invited to enroll as a student for the fall semester...._

******

“Who’s that woman you’ve been hanging out with lately? The one with the blond-ish hair.”

Iverson sighed at Ryu’s question. He’d only seen Aisling three times over the past two weeks, one of which was only a brief 30-second conversation in passing in the hallway. It was hardly enough to consider hanging out together, but the Garrison was a cesspool sometimes and everyone latched onto what little gossip they could.

He sat on the couch with his coffee, nodding an apology to Dos Santos for jostling him on the other end.

“Aisling Clarke. She’s on the Hesperus project.”

Ryu shrugged and turned back to his tablet. Chan leaned over the back of Hamilton’s chair, bickering over minute adjustments to the biology curriculum. Montgomery slumped over a flight textbook, resting on her elbows with her chin in one hand.

Dos Santos narrowed his eyes.

“Aisling Clarke, your ex?” he asked.

The rest of the teaching staff in the break room set aside whatever they had been focused on and turned to him in unison.

“Yeah, her,” Iverson said, doing his best to sound bored and hoping it would be contagious.

Dos Santos whistled. “You’re a prime dumbass. I can’t believe Montgomery hasn’t stopped you.”

“Mitch is a strong, independent dumbass who don’t need no guidance,” Montgomery said from her seat at the counter, turning a page in her book. She glanced up at him and narrowed her eyes in a mix of humor and something a little sharper.

Ryu stifled a snort, and Hamilton and Chan shared awkward looks with Dos Santos.

Iverson sighed again. This was how it had been since he had told her about his conversation with Aisling, and that he had left things open for a possible relationship. Montgomery had been pissed then, and she was still pissed now, and all their fellow teachers were starting to notice. At least she had settled for giving him a hard time, rather than... well, he wasn’t sure what, but he was pretty sure this was the best outcome.

Hamilton shook his head. “Nothing in the world would convince me to get back together with my ex.”

“We’re not dating,” Iverson grumbled.

Montgomery very pointedly did not look at him.

Chan buried her face in her hands. “God, it’s like when mom and dad were fighting.”

Then Iverson’s phone chimed with a message from Keith.

_Will you be home soon?_

Keith didn’t often message him during the day, and rarely expressed any desire to see him outside the usual schedule. Iverson stood and stretched; he didn’t have anything pressing to do on-base, so leaving a couple hours early and finishing his work at home wouldn’t hurt.

_On my way now._

He nodded to the rest of the teachers and tucked his phone into his pocket. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Going out?” Montgomery had closed her book and now stared right at him.

“No, going home.”

She almost smiled, then, hopping off the stool and grabbing her bag. “Alright, then.”

Everyone else was suddenly taken with their tablets or books or phones. Iverson shook his head. Was there something in the water that had them acting so strange?

Montgomery was silent until the door slid shut behind them. “Might as well see how Shiro’s doing. Going home to Keith?”

“Yeah, he actually asked.”

One corner of her mouth curved up as she followed him towards the exit. “Did he say why?”

“No, just asked if I’d be home soon.” He narrowed his eyes as hers crinkled. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out soon, I suppose.” She flashed him a bright grin and adjusted her grip on her bag. “What does Keith think of everything with Aisling?”

Iverson screwed his eyes shut and squeezed his forehead. “There’s not – there is no ‘everything’ with Aisling. We’ve talked a few times, and got coffee once, and that’s it.”

“With the intent to get back together.” Her voice was a little too flat and measured.

“With the intent to see if it’s even worth my time to bother with her.”

“I can tell you right now that it’s not.”

“It’s not really your call to make.”

“Oh, sure,” she scoffed. “Just don’t let Keith get attached before she walks out again.”

Iverson bit back the sting of that barb. “This again? Really?”

“She’s an asshole!” Mongtomery crossed her arms and scowled. “I’ll say it again and again until you get it.”

He stopped and sighed. “Jesus Christ, Lauren. I knew you didn’t like her but this is a bit much.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t need to act like it’s some cardinal sin for me to be worried about my friends.” Her voice grew tight. “It’s not even about her. It’s about you! I care about you, and I don’t want to see you hurt again!”

“Every time you start to pry, that’s your excuse.”

“It’s – it’s not an excuse! I’m not trying to pry! And I wouldn’t keep bringing it up if you would actually _listen_ to me!”

“Well stop trying to be some kind of life coach! It’s _my_ life, Lauren! Why don’t you fuck off and let _me_ live it?”

Montgomery took a small step back, as if flinching from a physical blow. Her gaze snapped to the floor as her lips pressed tight. A muscle in her cheek twitched.

“Yes, sir,” she spat. Then she looked right back up at him, eyes piercing, and turned on her heel, walking away in the other direction without another word.

He watched her leave and stared at the wall where the hall hit a corner for twice as long. When he finally felt like he could move, he let out a shuddering breath and dragged his hands down his face.

“God damnit.”

Sure, Iverson had lost his patience with just about everyone in his life at some point. But he had never snapped, or even raised his voice, at Montgomery like that before. He took a few steps in the direction of the residence halls, then stopped and shook his head. She probably needed some time to cool off. She had also said she was going to see Shiro, and he had told Keith he was already on his way home.

So he trudged outside, to his Jeep, and slid into the driver’s seat after fumbling with his keys and the door handle a little more than was normal.

He drove home in such a distracted daze that the sight of his own driveway came as a surprise. God, he had just... overreacted. Nothing Montgomery had said or done deserved his response. She was his friend, his closest friend, and the most important person in his life after Keith.

Iverson swung open the front door and was met with an armful of excited teenager. Keith gripped Iverson’s wrist and grinned up at him, face aglow, and opened his mouth – then clamped it shut for a second and swallowed hard.

“I got in,” he said, a little bashful. But he couldn’t hold down the smile any longer, and it broke through once more.

“You got in?” Iverson repeated, as his brain slowly caught up.

This was acceptance letter week. The coffee table was covered in papers with the Garrison’s gray and orange accents all over them. Keith was ecstatic about something, and still had his hands around Iverson’s forearm.

“I got in!” He tugged Iverson forward and shoved one of the papers at him. “Look!”

Iverson didn’t need to read the words to recognize the acceptance letter. He took one look at it, and at Keith’s name at the top, and broke into a smile of his own.

“I’m so proud of you, Keith,” he said, handing the letter back to him. And he was; Keith had grown so much, and worked so hard, and now he had tangible validation of that.

Keith carefully placed the paper back on the table, smoothing out the crease by where he had gripped it. Then he launched himself at Iverson, hugging as tight as he could.

“I can be a pilot,” he murmured into Iverson’s chest, then muffled a soft sniffle in his coat.

Iverson wrapped his arms around Keith and rested his chin on the top of Keith’s head. “You can be anything you set out to be, Keith. And I’ll always be proud of you.”

Keith sniffled a little louder and hugged a little harder.

Iverson squeezed him back. “We should celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” Keith wiggled back enough to look up at Iverson’s face. His eyes were a little red and puffy.

“We can go see a movie, or get gyros again. Whatever you want to do.”

“Oh.” Keith looked down again. “I... I’m fine.”

Over the past six months, Keith had relaxed and opened up and healed so wonderfully, finally on a path growing into the young man Iverson hoped he would become. But still, a few wounds from his past seemed to linger. And right now, as he frowned and shrank, Iverson wished he could go back in time and end whatever cruel bastard had taught Keith that he didn’t deserve celebration.

He sighed. “You don’t have to choose those. Or anything. But if you do want to celebrate, we’ll do anything you like.”

Keith looked thoughtful at that, eyebrows drawn together as he seemed to think it over. “Can we get ramen with Shiro?”

“Of course.”

“And Montgomery? She helped me with the essays, so...”

Iverson’s stomach twisted itself into knots, and he sighed again, heavier and longer. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t...” he started, rubbing his head and curling his fingers into a loose fist against his temple, “I don’t think she’d want to right now.”

Keith’s expression went from disappointed to stricken in the blink of an eye. “Oh. Okay.” He sat down on the couch and dragged his hand over the acceptance letter.

That was weird. Disappointment was normal, expected even. Keith did seem to like Montgomery more than he liked most people. But for him to look so miserable...

“Keith?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go to the Garrison.”

“What? No! Jesus Christ, Keith, of course you should go.”

Keith wrinkled the paper under his fingers. “But Montgomery is in charge of the pilot classes.”

It hit him like a bomb. “Keith.” He kneeled and grabbed Keith’s hands. “Keith, she’s upset at _me_. Not you. I... I said some unfair things to her today.”

Keith barely nodded.

“I’m sure she’s thrilled that you were accepted.” He ran his thumbs across Keith’s knuckles. “I’ll invite her.”

Keith took a shaky breath. “If you think she’ll come.”

Iverson drew him in for another hug. “Of course she’ll come.”

After a moment, Keith let out a heavy sigh and sagged against Iverson. He’d been like that a lot, lately; open, bordering on affectionate. That was a good sign. Iverson let out a sigh of his own. He had to fix things with Montgomery, for Keith’s sake if not for his own.

Keith squirmed and let out something like a laugh. “I can’t believe I got in!”

And then he twisted around, and smiled up at Iverson like he held all the joy in the world.

******

So this was what orientation meant.

A huge banner hung from the ceiling with a message of welcome for all the new students, looming over a table of sorts with a few chairs filled with Garrison officers. Next to it was a small stage with a microphone. Keith fidgeted with the strap of Shiro’s bag and glanced around the packed hallway, trying to avoid eye contact with the other incoming cadets and their families. He had to keep a low profile in new situations.

Iverson had a bunch of responsibilities in running the orientation things, he had said, and so Keith was pretty much alone for the morning.

Alone in the middle of a huge crowd of excited cadets, not a single one of them here on their own.

But Montgomery was supposed to check in with him at some point, as was Shiro, though he had no idea when he would see them. And then tomorrow night, after move-in, they were all going out for ramen.

Keith hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms. He had been around large groups of people in the Garrison before, but they had generally kept to themselves and stayed fairly quiet. They hadn’t been this noisy. He squeezed his elbows and looked down at the floor. Would the dorms be like this?

“If I could have everyone’s attention,” Iverson’s voice boomed from all around the room. He sounded different through a microphone and speakers, but hearing him was still sort of comforting, and Keith shuffled around until he had a direct line of sight to the stage where Iverson stood.

Eventually the crowd quieted enough for him to continue. “Welcome, new cadets.” That sent up a cheer. “I’m sure your friends and family are very proud of you for your hard work to get here. I know I am.”

He paused, then, taking a deep breath before jumping into the same explanation of the Garrison Academy that he had given Keith so many months ago.

“Many of you have already expressed an interest in a program of study. However, your first year will be primarily foundational classes, after which you can tailor your classes to specialize your focus. Any combination can work in theory, though in practice we split the programs into four majors: piloting, engineering, digital communications, and hard sciences. You’ll get to see a little of all of those today.”

The volume in the hall had been slowly rising as excited cadets chattered to each other and their families. Iverson gave them all an exasperated, long-suffering stare, until someone started shushing people and the shush sound spread through the crowd.

“Go see the volunteers at the table here for your information packets and tour group assignments. Tours will start within a half hour.” He paused, then smiled. “And again, congratulations, and welcome.”

The noise immediately jumped to where it had been, and Keith barely held back a wince. He squeezed through the crowd, moving towards the table and lining up by the I-R sign.

He was the only cadet here alone. Everyone else had at least one other person with them, whether it be a parent or sibling or close friend. So many of the cadets kept excitedly repeating “Mom!” or “Dad!” that the words started to thud in Keith’s ears like a heartbeat.

_Dad. Dad. Dad._

“Last name?” The officer at the table raised her eyebrows.

Keith shook his head, then blushed and looked down at the wrinkles in the tablecloth. “Kogane.”

One of the other officers two chairs down perked up and looked straight at him. Then she turned to the person next to her and whispered something to him about the Florida Run.

Keith shrank back.

“Keith Kogane? Here you go.” His officer handed him a glossy folder similar to the one he got in the mail. “You’re in group three,” she explained, pointing at the sticker on the top right.

He nodded, murmured a thanks, and ducked away.

The folder held a packet with floor maps of the Garrison buildings, a detailed catalog of all the offered courses, and information on the cafeteria and dorms. Keith was halfway through reading descriptions of the first-year core curriculum when Iverson’s voice rang out again.

“Alright, everyone, tours start in five minutes. Group one will be with Lieutenant Chan,” he said, pointing out each tour group leader as they raised their hands, “group two Ensign Hamilton, group three with Lieutenant Hedrick...”

Keith tuned out the rest of it. Hadn’t Shiro mentioned Hedrick a few times? Hedrick was a pilot, right?

He drifted across the floor, towards the officer Iverson had pointed at. Hedrick was striking and lean, and paler than anyone Keith had ever met. A few families had already clustered around him, smiling and asking questions.

Keith kept to the edges of the crowd. After a minute, Hedrick spotted him and grinned.

“Hey, you’re Keith, right?”

He shrank and flushed under the weight of everyone’s eyes as the rest of the group turned to stare at him. “Yes, sir.”

“Good! I’d hoped to have you in my group.”

“Thank you?” Keith was sure his face was bright red by now, only made worse by Hedrick’s chuckle. How had he known?

“Shiro talks about you a lot. We’ll be meeting up with him later.”

Oh. Keith nodded and held his arms close to his chest, gripping his elbows hard enough to wrinkle his shirt. How had Hedrick recognized him like that? Why did he have to point him out to everyone else?

“Keith, right? You know people at the Galaxy Garrison already?” another cadet asked. He was a little taller than Keith, with peach-gold skin and a flat nose.

Keith tucked his hands under his forearms. “Yeah.”

“Oh, cool! What do they do? I bet you probably know all of this orientation stuff already.”

The cadet’s parents appeared at his side with strained smiles. “Ethan,” his mom admonished, “don’t go darting off like that.”

Ethan grumbled and looked down at his feet. “Sorry, Mom.”

She softened, and her smile relaxed into something like what Keith had seen on Iverson’s face so many times. Ethan glanced up and grinned at Keith.

“Mom’s always too worried,” he whispered, so loud that he might as well have been talking normally.

“Ethan,” his dad warned. A smile tugged at his lips.

“So’s Dad.”

Both parents snorted and rolled their eyes.

“Are your parents with you?” Ethan’s mom asked.

Keith bit his lip and shook his head.

“Nah, Mom, they probably work here! Why else would Lieutenant Hedrick know him? And how would he get a Garrison bag?”

Ethan’s family then had some bizarre conversation through half-questions and significant looks, before his mom turned to Keith with another soft smile.

“You can stick with us today, if you want to.”

He stood frozen in place. How was he supposed to answer that?

“Alright, group three!” Hedrick bellowed. “Shall we get started?”

A few of the cadets, Ethan included, cheered, and Keith was glad for the distraction. But Ethan’s attention snapped right back to him, undeterred, as he kept chatting.

“I tried to get one of those bags for months. Months! But they don’t sell them online, and there’s no gift shop you can just order from. It was the worst. I have to get one tomorrow when we do the uniform fittings.”

Right. Tour and class registration today, uniforms and move-in tomorrow.

As they followed Hedrick through the halls, Keith learned all about Ethan’s life: his home in New Mexico, his older sister in college for clarinet performance, his friends at his old school, and his parents’ collection of fossil rocks.

“Most of them are just snails and shells, but there’s this one with a trilobite that’s at least this big,” he gushed, holding his hands in front of his chest. Then he grabbed his phone and showed Keith some pictures, and Keith had to admit it was pretty cool.

Ethan practically vibrated with excitement as they toured the student-run maker space, insisting that he would be part of the club that managed it. Then it was up to the chemistry labs, and the observation lounge, and the room full of practice models of all the complex engineering and radio tools.

None of it really registered with Keith, though.

All throughout the morning, he’d simply watched cadets and their families. They asked each other questions, put hands on each other’s shoulders, elbowed each other, teased each other.

“Isn’t this so cool, Mom?”

“Daaad, you’re embarrassing me!”

“Mom, can I get a mini telescope like that for back home?”

“Hey Dad, do you think I could 3D print a rocket engine?”

And Keith was alone.

Sure, Montgomery had found him between the chemistry lab and the observation lounge and said hello, but nothing more than that, and she wasn’t his mom anyway. And Shiro had waved to him in the hallway, but he had been going one way and Keith’s group the other, so...

Keith tried to keep his chin up and shoulders hunched, hoping to fend off the more worried looks that Ethan’s parents sent his way. At least they had stopped trying to pat him on the back after he had flinched away the first two times.

“Next we have lunch! Then the library and the flight sims,” Hedrick announced, to the general happiness of the tour group. It was already after noon, and Keith’s stomach was growling. “The cafeteria options rotate on a weekly basis, for the most part, though some are daily and some are at the whims of the kitchen staff...”

As the tour group filtered into the cafeteria, Keith caught sight of Iverson and snuck away for a moment, just to check in. Iverson smiled and fussed over him – well, as close as he ever got to fussing – resting his hands on his shoulders and straightening his posture.

“Keith. How has the tour been?”

“It’s okay. I’m already pretty used to the building.”

“Good. If anything confuses you, let me know and we can go over it tomorrow, alright?”

Keith nodded. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

They both froze.

Fuck. Of course Keith would blurt that out after hearing it so much from the other cadets today. He had completely overstepped, and everything would be –

Iverson pulled him into a fierce hug.

What?

Keith held his breath for a moment before curling his hands in Iverson’s jacket. Iverson squeezed a little harder, dropped his head a little closer to Keith’s, then let go. Were... were his eyes misty?

“Alright,” he rasped out, swallowing and clearing his throat a couple times. He grabbed Keith’s shoulders, straightening his posture again. He blinked his eyes rapidly and shook his head. “Okay. Um. What did you have left for your tour?”

“Hedrick said the library and the flight sims.”

Iverson exhaled slowly, shakily, then inhaled with a sharp sniffle. “Message me when you’re on your way to registration after that, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay.” Keith wrung his fingers together. He wanted another hug.

And Iverson pulled him close again, softer this time, holding him like something precious.

“Go have fun, Keith,” he murmured, patting Keith’s back and releasing him. His mouth twitched up into a smile. “I’m... so proud of you.”

Keith met him with a smile of his own and the familiar burn of tears in the back of his throat, nodding and making his escape before he could fall apart in the middle of the cafeteria.

He filled his tray with simple things, today. Mac and cheese, a pulled pork sandwich, and coleslaw. Iverson had called it comfort food once, and when he explained what it meant, Keith had countered by insisting that gyros were the real comfort food, and – Iverson let him call him Dad.

Ethan’s family waved him over to their table, but he shook his head and found his normal secluded corner. He had to think.

Iverson let him call him _Dad_. And he had already made it clear that he wanted to keep Keith. Did that mean he thought of Keith as his actual son? Like a real family?

Keith’s throat grew tight and his tongue felt too big for his mouth. He swallowed hard. A real family.

The food was tasty, as always, but Keith struggled to finish it. Halfway through the sandwich, and without touching the mac and cheese, he gave up and dumped it in the trash.

He could – he could have a real family now, and it wouldn’t matter that he’d lived on the streets. It wouldn’t matter, what he’d done then.

Hedrick soon began rounding up all the cadets in his tour group, and Keith left his corner to join them. Ethan immediately attached himself to Keith’s side, followed by his amused parents.

The library was two levels above the hallway leading to the flight sims, and the center opened to the spaceflight sim. Hedrick led them around the ring, pointing out study rooms students could reserve, tutoring facilities, and where to find the librarians for help. Then he turned the cadets loose for the next five minutes, ordering them all to return to his spot by the balcony when they were done exploring.

After a short walk around the shelves of books, Ethan gripped the railing overlooking the team spaceflight sim, leaning as far forward as he could. “Wow, look at that! I wonder what it does!”

“It’s the space shuttle simulator,” Keith blurted out. The half dozen other cadets around them all turned to him in unison. He pulled his shoulders up, glancing down at the floor.

“That’s right,” Hedrick said. “That’s where those of you who choose one of the spaceflight tracks will hone your skills as part of a team.”

“I’m gonna be an engineer,” Ethan whispered to Keith.

Before he could ask Keith what Keith planned to be – and the question was definitely on the tip of his tongue – Hedrick led them all onward to the fighter sims.

Montgomery and Shiro met them with polite smiles, though Shiro’s turned into a broad grin when he saw Keith.

Keith smiled back.

Montgomery gave a quick introduction that Keith ignored as he watched Shiro get situated in the far-right simulator. The door swung shut and sealed with a soft hiss. A moment later, a mirror of Shiro’s view appeared on the giant screen along the wall.

Was this what the students had seen when Shiro and Keith did their pairs run in front of the class?

The flight path appeared on the screen, and Shiro launched into a corkscrew, then a hard bank, and then –

Oh. This was the run Keith had done on the day he snuck into the Garrison. Shiro was on fire, tearing through it with a ferocity Keith had never seen. All the other cadets gasped and shouted at all the right parts as Montgomery explained everything Shiro was doing. Keith simply stared.

Shiro was incredible.

Four blistering minutes later, the run ended, and all the names on the leaderboard dropped down one slot as T Shirogane filled the first line once more.

“Knocked me off the top ten, that jerk,” Hedrick said. A few of the cadets giggled.

Shiro all but stumbled out of the sim, sweat plastering his bangs to his forehead. Montgomery rolled her eyes at him and handed him a towel.

“Didn’t have to go that hard, Shiro.”

The towel muffled Shiro’s laugh as he fluffed up his hair and wiped his face clean. “I couldn’t miss the chance to take back the top slot with Keith here.”

Keith’s face went hot, but he stood steady. Ethan edged forward, putting himself between Keith and the other cadets.

“Well, we have an extra ten minutes left before your tour is over,” Montgomery said. “Want to let them mess around in the sims?”

Hedrick shook his head. “Actually, I’d like to see Keith and Shiro in a pairs run.”

All the heat in Keith’s veins turned to ice. They wouldn’t put him on the spot like that, right? Ethan frowned as the other cadets shifted to get a good look at Keith. Even Shiro looked a little nervous.

But Hedrick was a teacher and an officer here, and Keith had to listen to the teachers and officers, so he nodded when Shiro asked if it was alright.

Montgomery helped him buckle into the middle sim, patting him on the shoulder and giving him a soft smile. “Make him work for it.”

Whatever that meant.

He pulled his headset on and held his breath.

_“Hey Keith, the Florida run has a pairs variant. Want to try that?”_

He exhaled. “Sure.”

_“For this, we have to mirror each other the entire way. No obstacles like the Needle run.”_

Right. Keith could do that.

The sim lit up in the sandbox level, with thirty seconds for Keith to get accustomed to the controls. Then the display cut straight to the runway, with Shiro’s jet ahead of Keith’s and already moving.

It was on.

Shiro’s jet had barely left the ground when Keith launched his forward. They lined up side by side in the sky no more than ten seconds later.

Shiro’s laugh warmed his ears. _“Oh, I see how it is. See if you can keep up!”_

Before Keith could come up with a reply, the flight path appeared and Shiro punched it.

“Hey!”

Keith caught him a moment later, grinning through Shiro’s laughter and cheers, as they whipped through the initial corkscrew, the banks and dives, every roll and turn and spiral, perfectly in sync.

Shiro whooped as they landed, loud enough to make the headset crackle, and utterly breathless. _“You’re amazing, Keith.”_

Keith wasn’t sure what he expected as the sim door popped open and Montgomery unbuckled him from the pilot’s chair. Maybe contempt, from the other cadets? Maybe disdain, from the parents? Maybe some kind of expectation, from Hedrick? But all he saw on their faces was awe, pure and simple, as they clamored over one another to shout questions at him. One hand motion from Hedrick quieted them.

“No wonder Shiro talks about you all the time,” he said.

Shiro let out a weird, strangled noise, as he wiped his face dry again. “Hey. Keith is my best friend, regardless of how he does in the sims.”

Best friend.

Not just a friend, but his best friend? Keith’s face flamed red once more.

Ethan pushed through the crowd and barely kept from grabbing Keith’s arms. “That was amazing!” Then he added, in a low whisper, “I call second-best friend.”

Was that how normal people made friends? Ethan seemed kind, if a little... much. But not bad. So Keith shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

A few more cadets climbed the steps to the sim, all smiles and friendliness. They asked simple questions that Ethan was mostly able to answer – already being a good friend by running interference, he insisted – and begged to be part of his flight team in the spaceflight classes.

“Keith, a word?” Montgomery’s voice cut through the chatter.

Keith shuffled through the crowd to where Hedrick, Shiro, and Montgomery stood.

“Now, normally we don’t have cadets specialize until they’re in their second year,” Hedrick said. “But it would be a waste to keep you from piloting classes. The Intro class actually fits into a gap in the first-year schedule, if you wanted to start on them now.”

Keith’s stomach dropped in the best way. “Really?”

Montgomery grinned. “You have the permission of the program director. Now all you need is permission from the instructor. That’s Lieutenant Mickelson.”

“The guy who let me fly his hoverbike?” He turned to Shiro with a smile. “The one I almost met after your first real flight?”

“Yep,” Shiro said. “You can finally thank him in person.”

“I’ll send him a message right now. Shiro can take you to his office. You’ll need the permission before registration starts.” Montgomery dipped her head towards Shiro. “Meet me back here after, Shiro.”

Keith bit his lip and nodded, though he wasn’t sure what he was nodding about. Just that he wanted this.

Shiro wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He looked so proud. “Let’s go.”

They took a mostly familiar route; it seemed Mickelson’s office was just two hallways down from Iverson’s. He could have gone to thank him weeks ago!

“He’s really friendly,” Shiro started, then paused. “Well, he comes across a little weird at first since he’s so casual, when everyone else is so formal. But he’s nice. I’m sure he’ll like you.”

Keith clenched and uncurled his hands. His stomach was a mess of knots. But today had been the best day he’d had in months. He’d made a new friend, or something like that. Iverson didn’t get upset at Keith calling him Dad. And now he would get a head start in the piloting classes.

Shiro gently eased him into a hug. “Keith, it’s okay. You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I’m not – I don’t know – I’m just... kind of excited but kind of... something else?”

“You’re fine. He’ll probably do most of the talking.” He squeezed once and let go. “And you deserve this. Go, be great.”

Keith nodded. Shiro smiled.

“I gotta check back in with Montgomery. Let me know how it goes?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He watched Shiro leave, then steeled himself and knocked on the office door.

“Come on in,” came a muffled voice from inside.

The door slid open and Keith quietly stepped inside, jumping when it shut behind him.

“You must be the cadet Montgomery said she was sending my way,” Mickelson said, face hidden by his computer screen. “Oh, Shiro’s friend, right?”

That voice.

Keith couldn’t stop the whimper that left his throat.

Mickelson glanced up at the sound, then scrambled to his feet as his eyes met Keith’s.

Blue eyes. Sandy hair.

No. No no no.

Keith stumbled backwards until his back hit the door. It didn’t open for him. His stomach lurched. He glanced around for something, anything, and came up with nothing. Mickelson looked him up and down, a weird frown on his face.

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you here, Pretty Boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can scream at me for this cliffhanger over on tumblr or pillowfort!
> 
> tumblr: https://amairawrites.tumblr.com  
> pillowfort: https://www.pillowfort.io/amaira


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK with a shorter chapter than usual but ENJOY

Neither spoke for at least a minute. Keith’s pulse hadn’t slowed, and his head felt loose and detached, like his brain was floating freely inside his skull.

“So quiet, Pretty Boy? But it’s Keith Kogane now.” Mickelson looked back at his computer screen. “Huh. Iverson as guardian! Never thought he’d be a sucker for a sob story. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Was he waiting for a reply? An explanation? Mickelson snapped his eyes back to Keith’s and scowled.

“Go on, sit. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Keith’s legs slowly shuffled across the floor to the single chair opposite Mickelson’s desk. It was identical to the ones in Iverson’s office, but felt... different. Wrong. He still sat in it. Mickelson sat down as well, tapping his tablet a few times.

“The Intro to Piloting class is held on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, from 1300 to 1600 hours. Montgomery is confident that your schedule can be worked around it.”

Keith exhaled slowly, then nodded.

“It will be a lot of work, especially for someone with your... history. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

He stayed silent. What could he say, anyway? He knew it would be a lot of work. The Garrison Academy as a whole would be a lot of work.

“What does Iverson think?”

No. Keith’s heart thudded. Mickelson couldn’t ask Iverson – he couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t. He – Iverson let him call him _Dad_ and he couldn’t just –

Mickelson’s lips curled into a grin. “He has no idea, does he? That you were a little prostitute on the streets. I can’t imagine he’d send you here if he knew.” He leaned back, fingers woven together in the picture of relaxation. Then the effect vanished as his features morphed into a glare. “Well? You’re supposed to answer when an officer asks you a question.”

Keith swallowed hard and clenched his teeth. “He doesn’t know.”

“There we go! Words!”

Keith flinched. Mickelson huffed and rolled his eyes.

They fell into an uneasy silence. Mickelson kept tapping away at his tablet, glancing occasionally at his computer screen, and sighing.

“Well, Cadet Kogane, do you think you have what it takes to be a pilot?”

The sudden question made Keith twitch, and he held his breath for a few seconds. Somewhere between hoping he could get away with saying nothing and wondering how the hell he was supposed to answer that, Keith’s mouth said, of its own accord, “I thought my sim scores made that obvious.”

And Mickelson chuckled. “Well, it’s good to see you haven’t lost all your fire.” He typed a few things, pausing to chuckle again every few seconds.

Keith sat in the chair, hands clasped together and thumbs dragging across his knuckles. What now?

“You do have the skill to fly, kid. You just have to prove you’re capable of everything else a pilot needs to do.” Mickelson grinned, rising to his feet and holding out his hand. “I look forward to having you in my class, Cadet Kogane.”

Keith stared at Mickelson’s hand for a moment before his eyes darted up to Mickelson’s face.

He was smiling, looking entirely unbothered.

Keith had to keep it together. Iverson couldn’t find out about this, about him. He swallowed hard, twisted his hands together, then stood and steeled himself to meet Mickelson’s handshake.

No matter how rigid he held his arm, he couldn’t keep it from trembling.

Mickelson clasped his hand, squeezing once and smiling wider. “Best go register. I’d hate to be disappointed when I get the student roster for my classes.”

Keith nodded without reply, until Mickelson’s gaze sharpened and he squeaked out, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re learning already. Dismissed.”

Mickelson ushered Keith out of the office, suddenly exuding kindness and gentleness, bidding Keith farewell with a soft smile and a pat on the shoulder.

Keith swallowed hard as the back of his throat spasmed.

What was he going to do?

******

How Iverson managed to steal a moment of solitude during orientation was a mystery. But there he stood, in an empty classroom, alternating between laughter and tears.

Keith had called him Dad.

Sure, it seemed like a slip of the tongue, and Keith had looked shocked as soon as the words left his mouth, but in Iverson’s experience, that meant the were sentiments more honest. More real. Most people, if they simply spoke the wrong word without knowing why, would have looked confused, rather than –

Iverson shook his head. Why the hell was he overanalyzing this? Keith had called him _Dad_. This was everything he’d been hoping for over the last six months! All he needed was the paperwork to make it official, and Keith was his _son_.

He grinned and whipped out his phone so quickly he nearly launched it into the hall, sending identical messages to Aisling and Montgomery.

_Keith called me Dad_

Montgomery’s first two replies came in instantly, a garbled mess of keys smashed in her excitement, followed by real words.

_Oh my god that’s great!_

Aisling’s response was slower – she had never been as quick on the draw with her phone as Montgomery was – and much more composed.

_You must be doing a good job of being a dad._

He smiled again. Keith was a good kid, so easy to be a good dad for. He soaked up all the care and support like a sponge, and didn’t throw tantrums or get upset like Iverson had heard so many other parents complaining about. Maybe Keith had already passed that most trying age. Keith was...

Well, Iverson had heard stories of new parents immediately declaring their babies perfect. And maybe this wasn’t the exact same situation, but it didn’t matter.

Keith was perfect.

His phone chimed again, with another message from Aisling.

_Won’t he have to call you Commander/Sir when he starts at the Academy?_

Iverson huffed and answered, _Yes._

All the cadets who had parents in the Garrison had to abide by that while the Academy was in session, and Keith would be no exception. Iverson couldn’t risk people thinking Keith had an unfair advantage; that boy, _his_ boy, was brilliant all on his own.

Now that he thought of it, Keith had never called him by any name or title until Dad. Not Mitch, not Iverson, nothing, until now.

He shook his head again, staring at his phone, as the smile took over his face once more. Then he took a deep breath and tucked the phone in his pocket. Keith should be at the registration tables by now.

He was only a few steps into the hallway before his phone rang. He grumbled and whipped it up to his ear.

“Iverson,” he snapped.

_“Hi there, it’s Lori Wilder from Braeburn and Wilder Family Law. Do you have a moment?”_

“Oh,” he said, almost stumbling. “A few minutes. It’s orientation day for Keith.”

_“I won’t keep you,”_ she said smoothly. _“We heard back from Family Services this morning. They are... reluctant to award you permanent custody or to approve an adoption, and I need to know if you’d like to continue pursuing it.”_

Iverson almost dropped his phone. “They what?! Why the hell not?”

His lawyer sighed loudly enough for him to hear it. _“For all society has moved forward, Family Services can still be somewhat conservative in their idea of a family. They are concerned that the demanding nature of your job will leave you unavailable too often, and your lack of a partner means Keith may find himself without a parental figure when he needs one.”_

He opened his mouth and started to speak, trailing off without anything to finish the half-formed thoughts in his head. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry. It wasn’t necessarily a bad reason, or even all that wrong. His job could be demanding, and it could leave Keith without someone to rely on at the wrong moment. Aisling was back, of course, but she and Keith hadn’t truly met, and...

_“And I hate to say it,”_ Wilder continued, sounding nearly pained, _“but there’s likely also a racial element to it.”_

“Racial.” He couldn’t even bring himself to be angry about that, either; all he felt was cold, stale disappointment. “Because I’m black.”

He dealt with less prejudice at the Garrison than outside it, especially now after 25 years and in a position of authority and respect. It was easy to forget that the rest of the world wasn’t the same.

_“Despite the progress people love to go on about, some still hold to the old stereotype that black men make bad fathers. And some of them end up working in Family Services.”_

“I’m not even surprised.”

_“It’s a shame. I know you’re set on adopting Keith, but I want you to know that this will probably be a lot more involved than a usual adoption. We’re talking court hearings, interviews with psychologists, and the like. It will also mean a lot more billable hours on my part.”_

He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “Keep pursuing it. If it... If I have to, I can step down to a lower position so I’m home more often.”

_“Of course.”_

“And I... I have been seeing someone lately. I’ll let you know if it gets serious, if that’s information that you would need.”

_“Please do. It couldn’t hurt.”_

They were both quiet for a long, awkward moment.

Iverson broke the silence with a sigh. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll have to tell Keith. I’m not sure how well he’ll take it. He... called me Dad, today.” He took a deep breath. “He’s almost 15. At what age are his own wants taken into account?”

_“In theory, they’re always taken into account. If you mean when he can state he wants to live with you and that will have a tangible impact, there’s no real official age, but it carries more weight the older he gets.”_

“Right. Well...”

_“Go be with Keith. I’ll be in touch if anything happens.”_

“Okay. Thank you.”

He sighed again, shook his head... again, and tucked the phone away. Again.

At least he wasn’t interrupted again on his way to registration. All he needed to complete this rollercoaster of an afternoon was for Keith to try to back out of going to the Garrison.

The large conference hall was packed to the gills with cadets and their parents, crowding around the registration tables and filling the room with a persistent murmur. And there Keith was at the far table, or at least, there was Shiro, towering over the younger students and smiling like he always did around Keith.

Iverson stood and watched them for a moment, just close enough to hear.

“I don’t know, Shiro. What if I’m not cut out for this?” Keith said, barely audible over the noise.

Son of a bitch.

“That’s ridiculous! You were amazing! Don’t give up before you try,” a new, unfamiliar voice insisted.

Huh? Iverson edged through the crowd, offering smiles and handshakes to a few happy families as he passed them.

“I mean, if you don’t like it then sure, do something else. But you haven’t even had your first class.”

“It’s Ethan, isn’t it? – Ethan’s right, Keith,” Shiro said. “And you’ve enjoyed flying every single time we’ve gone to the sims.”

When Iverson finally reached them, Keith had his chin nearly tucked into his chest, as Shiro draped an arm over his shoulders. A third boy, a little taller than Keith, stood a few steps away from them with his parents.

“Keith?”

Keith’s head snapped up, and he tore away from Shiro to stand with Iverson. And damn, if that didn’t warm his heart just a little – but no, something was up.

“What’s going on?”

Keith mumbled something too low to hear. Iverson locked eyes with Shiro.

“Montgomery recommended having Keith start in Beginner Piloting this year,” Shiro explained. Keith curled his shoulders and shivered. “And Keith is nervous about it. Despite having the approval of Montgomery, Hedrick, and Mickelson.”

Iverson looked down at Keith and frowned. Keith didn’t look nervous; he looked _scared_.

Keith had often seemed overwhelmed by life in general since Iverson took him in, but he had always overcome everything he faced. This was a bigger change than anything else, though. So Iverson squeezed his shoulder and smiled.

“I know you can handle it, Keith.”

Keith glanced up at him and bit his lip. “But what if I can’t?”

Ah. The usual worries. “Then we find something you can handle, and try that instead.”

Keith’s lip twitched up into a half-smile at the familiar answer, before he forced his mouth flat again. “What if I’m not ready yet?”

Iverson placed both his hands on Keith’s shoulders and straightened them. It had been no more than a couple hours since he’d done it, but somehow felt like months since he had meant it. “At least give it a try. If it’s too much, you can drop the class and enroll in the class first-year cadets take. It’s a survey of all the major areas of study, to help cadets decide which to pursue.”

Silence – relative silence, at least – stretched for several moments, before Keith ducked his head and nodded. But something felt... off. Keith sagged again, keeping his eyes down. His face was as close to expressionless as Iverson had ever seen it. He looked defeated, worn down into submission, rather than satisfied with the compromise.

Iverson squeezed Keith’s shoulder, about to encourage him to say something, when Montgomery strode right to the middle of their group with a grin on her face and a coffee in her hand.

“Mickelson gave his approval!” she crowed, almost preening. She raised her thermos to Keith as if in a toast. “We have something extra to celebrate at dinner tomorrow.”

Keith frowned and swallowed so hard his neck flexed with the effort. For a brief second, he looked like he might cry.

Shiro seemed to notice it, too, stepping closer to Keith and patting him on the back.

“Hey,” Iverson said, with a gentle tug, “come here. It’ll be okay.”

Keith shuffled forward and let Iverson hug him.

Shiro looked on with a fond smile.

The third boy glanced between Iverson and Keith, before blurting out, “Are you adopted?”

“Ethan!” His parents grimaced at him, and he shrank a few inches under their disapproval.

Iverson and Keith both stiffened.

“That’s not appropriate to ask of someone you don’t know,” Iverson said, with a steely glare that had silenced many a cadet in the past.

Ethan was, apparently, not an average cadet. “But I do know him! We meet earlier today, in the tour group!”

His parents hissed his name again. Montgomery pulled him aside and spoke to him in a low voice, inaudible over the general noise of the room. Ethan’s face slowly morphed from pouting to chastened. He turned back to Iverson and Keith and mumbled an apology.

Keith was always fairly quiet. Quietness itself was never unusual, but today it seemed different, strange. He didn’t say anything in reply to Ethan’s apology.

Sometimes, Keith seemed like he didn’t know how to socialize with other kids his age at all.

Ethan’s family introduced themselves and took their leave immediately after, all but dragging Ethan along as he fired off a sloppy salute to Iverson and Montgomery.

Iverson shook his head and nudged Montgomery. “Cadet Crow sure will be something.”

“He already is,” she laughed. “Can’t believe the balls on that kid.”

“What did you say to him?”

Montgomery shrugged and smiled. “I told him that people aren’t in a position to be adopted as teenagers because they’ve had a perfect life up to that point, and it can be a painful and personal subject. Also that meeting someone isn’t the same as knowing someone.”

Iverson nodded and glanced at Keith, who was looking over the course catalog with Shiro. Montgomery was right, in a way. It took time after the initial introduction to actually get to know someone, let alone trust them like Keith trusted Shiro, or Montgomery, or... Iverson himself.

“Do you think it’s too early to introduce him to Aisling?”

He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over Montgomery, with how she tensed.

“I didn’t know things were that serious with her.”

Iverson sighed and dragged his hands over his head. “I just got off the phone with the lawyer a few minutes ago. Family Services is reluctant to give permanent custody or approve an adoption because I don’t have a partner who can help co-parent Keith.”

Montgomery scowled even further. “But single parents adopt kids all the time.”

“Yeah, I know.” He dropped his hands to his side. “The lawyer thinks it may be racially motivated. That there’s a suspicion I wouldn’t be a good father.”

“Racially motivated? How the...”

He could see the exact moment the words registered, the precise second she understood what he meant. All expression dropped from her face, leaving her a blank slate of barely-concealed fury.

“No fucking way,” she hissed.

Iverson shrugged and nodded. “It is what it is.”

“It’s absolute _bullshit_ is what it is.”

“I know, Lauren. But I have to do what’s best for Keith.”

The sharpness in Montgomery’s eyes felt like a physical stab. “Yeah. And the whole Family Services situation is awful. But get your head on straight about Clarke first. Figure out what you’re doing. And definitely don’t introduce Keith to someone you’re not serious about just so you can use her to get a leg up in family court.”

Iverson stared. “Lauren...”

She turned and waved him off with her coffee. “Tomorrow at 1800, right? I’ll catch up with you after move-in is done.”

His head spun as he watched her leave.

Keith sidled up next to him with a nervous smile. “I can’t decide which math class to take.”

Iverson took a deep breath and patted Keith’s shoulder. “Which ones are you deciding between?”

******

Keith shivered under his blankets.

His dorm wasn’t that cold. The bed wasn’t as comfortable as the one at home, but it was a lot better than beds in the shelters he’d slept in before. There wasn’t a draft, either.

He stared at his phone, propped up on a small stand, displaying the time like an alarm clock.

_12:36 – 3 new messages_

He had come back to his room after his morning classes, skipping lunch with Shiro even though he had promised to meet him there, burrowing deeper into the blankets as each message arrived. He didn’t want to read them. He didn’t want to do anything.

Maybe, if he pretended he was sick, he wouldn’t have to go to Mickelson’s class.

His phone buzzed.

_12:40 – 4 new messages_

Keith slid out from under the covers and tugged on his uniform boots. It wouldn’t work, faking it. Iverson would know. The doctors would know.

Shiro would probably fall for it, but Shiro couldn’t get him out of class.

He tucked his Garrison-issued student tablet under his arm and grabbed his phone from its stand, swiping to unlock it. Shiro’s messages popped up.

_Hey Keith! I’m in the corner booth behind the pole. See you soon!_

_Are you running late?_

_Keith?_

_Are you alright? Let me know what’s going on, okay?_

His throat pinched, and he shoved the phone into his pocket.

He could do this. He just had to... keep his head down, not attract attention, right? Be as mild as possible, and maybe Mickelson wouldn’t bother him?

Keith straightened his uniform jacket and ran a hand through his hair. If he acted like everything was fine, maybe it would be.

To his surprise, his tablet directed him to a classroom with desks rather than the sims. Half the seats were already taken. Cadets he didn’t recognize gave him curious looks as he sat in the closest desk to the wall, whispering to each other and stealing glances at him every few seconds.

At precisely 1:00 – or, 1300, like Iverson preferred – Mickelson strutted into the classroom, all smiles and good cheer.

“Welcome, welcome!” he chirped, grinning at the cadets, who grinned right back. “Hope you all had a good summer. Of course you all remember me from the piloting portions of last year’s Survey class, buuut...” he trailed off, tapping on his tablet, “... let’s see how many of you I remember!”

A few of Keith’s classmates giggled.

Mickelson called out names and cadets raised their hands and barked out “Present!” in reply. Then, after Beth Holloway, Mickelson paused and frowned.

“Riiiiight,” he purred. “Keith Kogane?”

Keith swallowed hard and raised his hand. “Present.”

Mickelson’s lips curled up into a smirk. “Our resident first-year student! Very exciting, to have the cadet who broke some of Ensign Shirogane’s records in my class.”

The looks from his classmates shifted from curious to suspicious. A few started whispering again. Someone whined.

“Cadets, please,” Mickelson said, his free hand held up in a plea. His mouth still carried a ghost of his smirk, though; he wasn’t really pleading. “I know a lot of you would have liked to be in the piloting program your first year, too. Let’s not make a fuss over it.” He looked down at his tablet with a small smile. “Though, if you have a moment, I’d highly recommend looking at his sim flights. They are quite something! Of course, anyone mentored by Ensign Shirogane is bound to become a phenomenal pilot.”

Keith bit his lip and kept his eyes down as Mickelson finished taking attendance.

“Alright! Let’s get to it!”

Keith flinched at the sudden shout. The rest of the students giggled again.

Mickelson glided through a summary of the class syllabus with ease, cracking jokes with the cadets in the front row and drawing weird diagrams on the whiteboard.

Keith was sure they would have made sense, if he could hear anything beyond the pulse of blood through his ears.

“To the simulators! Let’s see how you all do on your first day! Well – most of you,” Mickelson said, with a shrug in Keith’s direction.

A few of the other cadets scowled.

The class gathered up their belongings and followed Mickelson through the halls. Everyone ignored Keith, and he fell to the back of the line, shuffling along just close enough to the rest of the group to look like he was part of the class. As they crowded around the sim Mickelson chose, he hid behind the tallest cadet he could find.

“Where’s Cadet Kogane?”

Keith stiffened. The class shifted around until Mickelson had clear line of sight on him.

“Come on up! It might help the rest of the class to see a slightly more experienced pilot demonstrating before they all try their hands at this.”

He wanted to shake his head, to say no, to refuse to be singled out. But his feet carried him forward, to the rack of flight suits behind Mickelson. And his hands set his tablet and phone on a small table, then grabbed the small suit and pulled it over his uniform. He sat in the pilot’s chair, secured the headset over his ears, and waited.

The sandbox level appeared on the screen.

_“We’re all watching you out here,”_ Mickelson’s voice said, tinny and hollow. _“Take off and keep moving in a straight line, maintaining altitude.”_

Keith’s hands shook, but he obeyed.

_“Good! Now, raise your pitch by five degrees.”_

Keith froze. He didn’t know any of the words, just how to do what felt right.

_“Kogane?”_

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what pitch is, sir.”

Mickelson was quiet for longer than Keith liked.

_“The transverse axis. Raising or lowering the nose of the aircraft. Increasing your pitch five degrees from level should put you in a gentle climb.”_

Mickelson sounded exasperated. Keith quickly complied with his instructions.

_“Good.”_ His voice grew muffled as he explained a bunch of technical stuff to the rest of the class, before it returned to its usual clarity. _“Okay, decrease pitch back to where you started. Now, this one should be fairly simple: roll. One full rotation.”_

Keith hesitated. Did he mean twirling relatively in place, or what Shiro had called a barrel roll?

Probably a barrel roll. It had ‘roll’ in the name.

Mickelson half-growled, half-sighed into the mic on his end, blasting Keith’s ears with what felt like a hundred tiny drums.

_“While technically correct, barrel rolls are a banking motion rather than a roll. Keep it tight, cadet.”_

Keith’s face flamed red, and he quickly did the twirly motion.

_“There. Again, but slower.”_

And so it continued, with Mickelson giving orders and Keith not knowing what the hell he meant, failing every time to guess the correct action.

By the time he landed, he felt nauseous, and he struggled to keep his stomach settled as he stepped out of the sim, stepped out of his flight suit, and grabbed his tablet and phone.

Mickelson appeared so disappointed, and Keith almost felt bad for disappointing him – but it all seemed fake, like the look on his face was exaggerated.

“Cadet Kogane,” he began with a breathy sigh, “I know you have the raw talent to be a pilot. But you can’t skate by on the advantage you’ve started with. Everything you struggled with, we covered in class not a half hour ago. Weren’t you paying attention?”

Keith’s lower lip trembled, and he latched onto the inside of it with his teeth. He had been paying attention, or at least trying to, but he just wasn’t able to hear anything well enough to understand it. But... he didn’t want to argue. He lowered his chin and shook his head in response to Mickelson’s question.

Mickelson sighed again and grabbed Keith’s shoulder, digging his thumb under the clavicle. Keith held back a whimper.

“I’m disappointed. I expected better – still do expect better. You’d better show some improvement in work ethic.”

“Yes, sir.”

He released Keith with a tiny shove towards the rest of the class. “Who wants to go next?”

Keith stumbled to the back of the group as excited cadets clamored for the next turn and grumpy cadets quietly sneered at him. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and pressed the tablet to his chest like it was armor.

He couldn’t bring himself to watch the rest of the flights, or to listen to Mickelson’s voice.

He had to get out of here, out of this class. Maybe out of the Garrison. Could he tell Iverson that it just wasn’t for him? That he tried and didn’t like it? Would Iverson believe him? Would he let him? How long would Keith have to wait in order to say he really tried?

And why did Shiro have to make such a fuss over him at orientation? He could have just enrolled in the first-year class and been fine! He didn’t need to have so much attention drawn to him!

Some time later, the class began to disperse, and Keith followed them. Class was over, it seemed.

Halfway through the hallway, some of the cadets from class had circled around Shiro, cheerfully asking him questions that he answered with a smile. A strained smile.

Keith hunched his shoulders and walked past.

“Keith!” Shiro shouted. “Wait up!”

He sped up instead, walking even faster as he heard Shiro excuse himself from the conversation and run after him.

“Keith! Why weren’t you at lunch?”

“It’s not your business,” Keith grumbled.

“Yes, it is, when we had plans and you blew them off!” He stood in Keith’s way, hands outstretched. “What’s going on?”

Keith refused to look at Shiro, stepping around him and keeping his eyes down. They burned too much to be trusted. Shiro grabbed his arm. His tablet clattered to the floor, cracking along a corner. Keith swallowed the lump in his throat as he knelt to pick it up.

“I’m... I’m sorry, Keith,” Shiro said.

Keith whirled around and glared. Tears filled his eyes, and he blinked them away. “Just leave me alone, Shiro!”

He spent the rest of the night in his bed.

******

Inhale. Exhale. Try not to puke.

Shiro stood at the head of the classroom, tablet in hand, as he studied the cadets. _His_ students. In a class that he was the sole teacher for, rather than the TA.

His hands ached. His officer uniform felt tight and poorly fitted, even though he had taken it to be adjusted just a week ago. His stomach twisted. Was he really going to vomit? He kind of felt like he had after his first flight.

This was a horrible fucking mistake. Why had he let Iverson and Montgomery suggest it?

Shiro looked down at the tablet, at the class syllabus covered in Hedrick’s scribbled notes. Right. Hedrick was in meetings for the Hesperus project, probably going to space again soon, and Shiro was meant to be the replacement teacher once Hedrick was gone, wasn’t he?

“Okay,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat, and the murmurs died down. “Uh. Welcome to Beginner Fighter.”

He stared at the cadets, and they all stared back at him, eyes wide and full of wonder. A beat of sweat trailed down the back of his neck.

This was nothing like tutoring.

Hell, Mickelson had even warned him that all students could smell fear. It had seemed a bit over the top at the time, like his usual cheerful exaggerations. But as Shiro watched the brightness fade from the cadets’ eyes as they started to fidget, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mickelson was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Shit. How had Hedrick started this class?

Shiro cleared his throat again. “You, uh, all should have a copy of the syllabus on your tablets.” He waited, swallowed hard, stared down a few of the students who didn’t have their tablets on their desks. That... actually seemed to help, as they quickly rummaged through their bags and pulled up the syllabus on their tablets.

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He’d always hated when teachers read the syllabus aloud to him.

“I’ll expect you all to read this and be familiar with the full expectations of this class by Thursday. For now, keep those handy, so you can take notes.”

A few cadets grabbed their tablet pens. Good. Shiro glanced down at Hedrick’s notes on the teacher copy, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“This class is split into two blocks of traditional classroom study and hands-on simulator training. The, uh, the schedule says it’s an even break, but we can adjust as needed, based on what you all need most.”

He looked up at the cadets again. Half of them were writing. A few sat still in their seats and stared at him. The rest looked bored.

Shiro’s voice cracked as he continued, and kept cracking for the rest of his introductory... speech, or whatever his fumbling mess of words was.

After the brief rundown of the syllabus, he led the class to the simulators, not realizing until he stood outside the door that of course they had taken Intro to Piloting last year and already knew where the sims were.

He managed to eke out a weak excuse of showing them more fighter-specific sim runs, before the end-of-class bell rang and he was free.

Free to run to the toilets and vomit.

Was... was this how Keith had felt yesterday? He’d been damn near upset about the very idea of the class during registration. Was the real deal too much for him?

Shiro wiped his mouth, splashed water on his face in the sink, and floated through the halls to his apartment.

Flat on his back on the couch, he fumbled with his phone and opened up his conversation with Keith.

_Will you be at dinner tonight?_

Because Keith had skipped, last night. Apparently he also hadn’t shown up to his second afternoon class.

Minutes ticked by with no response. Shiro groaned and rolled off the couch, barely landing on his feet.

Keith wasn’t in the cafeteria that evening, either. Shiro found that his appetite was missing, too.

He curled around his phone in bed that night, staring at his latest unanswered message.

_I’m sorry, Keith. Will you let me know you’re okay?_


End file.
